


And They Lived

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Absent Parents, Accidents, Adopted Children, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Anniversary, Assault, Background Case, Background Relationships, But Again Only Shine and Emily, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Celebrations, Childhood Trauma, Children, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Declarations Of Love, Detectives, Developing Relationship, Discovery, Disguise, Drama, Drama & Romance, Drunkenness, Emily and Shine Are the Only Ones Who Still Die, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Family Issues, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, First Christmas, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Forehead Kisses, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Holidays, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, I'm So Sorry Emily, Illnesses, Kidnapping, Kissing, Long, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love, Love Confessions, Male Bonding, Male Friendship, Marriage, Massage, Mimi Does Not Exist, Motherhood, Nature, New Year's Kiss, Oh and Papa Swift Also Dies, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Platonic Relationships, Protective Parents, Protectiveness, Relationship(s), Rewrite, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Secret Relationship, Sex, Step-parents, True Love, Vacation, Violence, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: It’s not always “happily ever after,” but sometimes it’s close enough.
Relationships: Jane Cobden/Edmund Reid
Comments: 49
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon rewrite, beginning with "Our Betrayal" and continuing shortly after the end of the series. Please read with joy and confidence knowing that: Best does not die! Bennet does not die! Susan does not die! And others do not die. (Emily, Shine, and Papa Swift still die, though--sorry, but someone had to die. And Mimi does not exist in this universe--again, sorry.) 
> 
> That being said, buckle up, cats and kittens. This should be a fun ride!

He had written difficult letters in his life, but none harder than this. 

_ My Dear Jane — _

He threw out three pieces of paper before he settled on his next words. By the time he scribbled his name at the bottom, he sat with his head bowed over his desk, weary and drained. 

A perfect time for Jackson to burst into his office. 

“Not now, Jackson. Whatever it is can wait. I have a—”

“It cannot wait, Reid. Believe me, what I have to say warrants your attention.”

“If this concerns your _ dolt _of a brother, I will see him throttled within an inch of his life, but, at the moment, I have other matters to which I must attend.” With a deep breath, he slipped his letter into an envelope and scrawled Jane’s address on its front. 

“Other matters?” Jackson echoed, his voice leaping with distracted curiosity. Edmund eyed him as he approached his desk and braced himself on a chair opposite him. “Like what?” 

Edmund stood. “Matters that do not concern you. As close as we are, Captain, do you imagine my _ entire _life a tool to be used for your convenience and entertainment?” 

Jackson had the sensibility to look abashed. 

“Now,” Edmund continued, rounding his desk. “Unless your brother truly _ has _pilfered my silverware, I will deal with you later.” He pointed at Jackson with the corner of his letter before he continued toward his door. 

“Reid, wait.” 

With a huff, he stopped, his hand on the doorframe. 

Jackson’s expression softened—and poked at Edmund’s suspicions—as he turned where he stood. “That letter. You addressed it to Jane.”

“I did. What of it?”

“I thought,” Jackson hesitated, but only for a second. “I thought Abberline was here about this...Shine business, but now I have to ask myself if he was here to rebuke you about your—uh, your involvement with Jane.” 

“Then ask yourself. I cannot stop you.” 

“Come on, Reid, what did Abberline tell you?” 

From the very beginning, Jackson had taken a keen interest in his interactions with Jane. Then, he had been grateful for his advice and confidence. Now, he wished Jackson would mind his own affairs. “What makes you think he told me anything?”

“Because one day you’re a man possessed and preoccupied by love and now you’re—”

“I was not _ possessed.” _He picked at semantics, he knew, because he had no other option. No other hope of distraction.

“Well, whatever you want to call it, it’s evident to anyone who knows you that you love her.” Edmund set his jaw as Jackson stepped closer to him. “And now you’re—what?” His friend stared at him. “By the look on your face, I cannot believe for one second that you send her a love letter.” 

Edmund employed every false, deceptive fiber in his body to set Jackson on the wrong path. “And what if I am?”

“Then you would not be so damn cagey about it.” 

He should have known better; in the ways of intimate relationships, Jackson would not be fooled. He knew his friend had caught him; Jackson had detected every attempt at circumvention and remained, as ever, a thorn in his side. Edmund watched as Jackson’s mouth curved into an arrogant half-smile. 

With a frown, Edmund opened the door and made to leave, but Jackson hooked him by the elbow. 

“Now, Reid, I know you’re no casanova, so if I’m wrong, and that really is a love letter, then I must tell you: letter-writin’ ain’t the way to a woman’s heart.” 

Edmund blinked at him. Every muscle in his body tensed. Frustrated boiled within him, and he breathed harder. 

Jackson noticed, and he reached around him to ease the door closed. With even more care, he plucked the letter from his hand. He did not open it, but rather set it on the corner of Edmund’s desk. “Let me guess,” he said. “The Yard saw the Star’s headline and, ever the upstanding moral examples, objected and sent good ol’ Abbs, your friend and superior, to tell you to end it.”

Edmund directed his gaze to the corner of the room. He focused on a deteriorated brick--pock-marked and soft-edged--and, after a few heavy, silent seconds, he nodded. 

“And what did he say, exactly?”

“He said to break it off.” 

“Or?” 

“Or take my pension. Leave the police. And find other work.” Even as he said it, Edmund could not stomach it. He could not bear the idea of abandoning the only work that fulfilled him. The only work that made any marginal difference in the world. The only work so perfectly suited to him. His breath wavered as it left him, and, in a sudden wave of panic, he lunged around Jackson and tried to retrieve the letter from his desk. 

Jackson put himself between Edmund and the letter. He thwarted every one of Edmund’s attempts to swerve around him, making Edmund sigh and huff and stomp, like a disgruntled elephant.

When Edmund threw himself with undignified abandon towards his desk, Jackson swooped down and seized the letter, then shuffled out of his reach like a crab.

“No, no, no,” Jackson said, waving the letter in the air. “I’m not letting you send this.” 

“You do not even know what it says!” 

“I don’t need to!” Jackson slapped the letter to his forehead, as if diving its contents. “Let’s see. You mention ‘unavoidable circumstances.’” 

Edmund clenched his teeth so hard, dull pain pulsed through his jaw. “Yes.” 

“And ‘they left me with no choice.’” 

“It is true! They did not!” 

“It is _ not _true. You got plenty of choices.” 

“Well, then, please! Tell me!” As he spoke, Edmund’s hands cut and sliced through the air all about him. “Because I do not know what choice is left to me, Captain!” 

“Then you are thicker than I thought, Reid,” Jackson said, backing further away from him until he stood on the opposite side of his desk. “How ‘bout I help you?” And, before Edmund could reach him, Jackson ripped the letter into pieces and scattered them into the air. 

For a few seconds, Edmund watched with an open mouth as the pieces of paper fluttered to the floor. Then, lunging for Jackson, he shouted, “How the _ hell _do you think that will help me?”

Jackson scampered away from him and, maintaining a safe distance, said, “Now you have a choice! Reid!” 

Edmund continued to chase him. 

“You’ve got a blank slate! Write another letter _ or _go to her!” 

They must have looked like two children in a play yard. Going ‘round and ‘round the desk. One dancing out of the way of the other, bending and twisting as if string composed his spine instead of bone. 

“Reid! Calm down, will you? I did you a favor.” 

“A favor?” He stopped and leaned over his desk, propping himself up with his arms, both hands flat, his body heaving with labored breaths. 

Jackson hovered a few feet away. “Yeah, a favor.” 

As Edmund worked to catch his breath, his mind leapt between different possible versions of reality. In one version, he rewrote the letter and, as he had originally planned, sent it off to Jane. He would keep his job. With no continued relationship between them, he would not risk further discovery or discipline. He would not endanger her career. And—of this he was certain—the ache that resided deep in his chest would linger until the pain of their parting subsided, and he did not know how long that would take. In another version, he took Jackson’s advice and visited her, but he only imagined himself in her doorway, unable to speak. His brain tried to skip over their conversation, envisioning her hands on him, his mouth on her, her voice in his ear. Then it skipped _ far _ahead, creating a picture of the two of them on a sofa before an evening fire, both of them aged, strands of gray at both their temples; Jane, her hand entwined with his, her head against his shoulder, as his own eyes fell closed and his muscles relaxed. 

The final vision appealed to him the most—a sense of contentment and companionship in his older years. Intimacy. Peace. Warmth. “Suppose I go to her,” he said, meeting Jackson’s eyes. “Suppose I go to her,” he started again. 

Jackson raised his eyebrows. 

He shook his head. “No. No. I cannot—” He stopped himself before he said more, before he continued to say, _ “—ask you, a man whose own relationship is in shambles, for advice. I cannot.” _

“What?” 

“I cannot...think of what—I do not know what to tell her.” 

Finally, his friend closed the distance between them and squeezed his shoulder. “The truth. She’s a smart woman, Reid. She knows how the world works. Tell her what’s happened. You’ll figure it out together.” 

He shook his head, fidgeting with his pockets, the hem of his coat. Jackson did not often speak with such candor, so he listened, but he could not bring himself to share in Jackson’s certainty. “Jane, she did not wish to...hide. I do not remember her exact words, but she wanted to be…” He struggled to find the correct word. “Visible. She did not want to conduct our relationship in secret and, at least for now, I see no other way—”

Jackson’s cheeks puffed with the expulsion of an abrupt laugh. “Jesus, Reid, do you think her opinion so unalterable that she would not reevaluate her position once she learns of the change in your circumstances?” Jackson’s face hovered so close to his that he could feel the breeze of his breath, yet he could not raise his eyes to Jackson’s face. Instead, his eyes closed when Jackson slid his hand to the center of his back, an almost-embrace. “Do you not believe she cares for you enough to make this sacrifice?” 

Edmund drew and released several hard breaths. His mind whirled. He did not know. He and Jane had shared several intimate moments. They had revealed some measure of feelings for each other. But he still did not know if she would change her mind about something she had insisted upon with such conviction. And he confessed as much to Jackson: “I do not know.” 

Jackson was, as ever, practical in his response. He slapped him on the back and said, “Then get out of here and go ask her.” 

Edmund’s heart drummed an intense, hard, fast beat in his chest. A knot formed in his throat, and he struggled to force his saliva around it and down—down, into his stomach, which twisted and tensed when he imagined Jane’s face. But with his next breath he threw himself into motion, patting Jackson’s arm. “Thank you, Jackson,” he said. He rushed toward the door and pulled it open. “Oh! The, uh, the reason you came? You said it warranted my attention.” 

“Nah,” Jackson replied, his face pulled into a smile. He waved him away. “Go. It can wait.” 

When he was sure of Jackson’s sincerity, he nodded. As he hurried out of the station house, he focused his mind and body on one goal: reach Jane. Reach Jane as soon as possible. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Jackson’s advice, Edmund goes to see Jane after he is ordered to end their relationship.

Jane sat at her desk, papers scattered before her, a pen in her hand. Her lamp cast a warm, comforting glow, and she bathed in it, calm and relaxed. The Star’s headline had flustered her, for certain, but after she had spoken, first, with Edmund and, second, with other councillors, she had returned to a state of contentment. She shed her worries when she realized the public did not seem to care about her personal involvement with Edmund. She had expected them to take notice and ridicule her. She had expected them to try to remove her from office. But, so far, the only people to raise an eyebrow at her were a collection of old men she passed in the corridors—bankers, industry-men, and the like. _ Some _of the older men, and certainly the younger men—they barely blinked at her. 

So, set at ease, she carried on with her usual business, confident that the public would care little for the story in a day’s time. 

She put her mind to work on analyzing a proposed council measure, bent over a modest stack of paper with her chin in her hand until she heard intermittent _ clicks _ and _ clacks _against her office window. Her face scrunched with confusion as she turned in her chair, then stood, drawn toward the source of the noise. When she arrived at her window, she peered down to the street to find Edmund, his arm cocked and ready to fire another pebble at her window. As soon as she caught his eye, his arm fell. The pebble dropped to the street. Then he waved to her as if he were directing carriages on a congested thoroughfare. 

She shook her head with amusement and, although she knew he could not hear her, shouted, “What?” 

He stopped signaling, and his shoulders drooped. With a great upswing of his arms, he mimed opening a window. 

So she opened the window and leaned beyond the windowsill. “Edmund, this is quite unorthodox, even for you,” she said, half-teasing, half-serious. 

He ignored her comment and said, “Come outside.” 

“Will you not come inside?” she asked. To her, this seemed like the more sensible course of action. “I can offer you tea. Or coffee, if you prefer. I would be glad to share a cup with you.” 

“No,” he said, firm and immovable. “Come down. Walk with me. I must speak with you.” 

She looked at him for a moment, trying to evaluate the urgency of his demand. It took no more than five seconds for him to shift his weight, to shove his hands into his pockets, to glance about him, then finally implore her again. 

“Jane, please. I would speak with you about…” Again, he scanned his surroundings. “About serious matters.” 

She did not understand why he could not join her in her office. The embarrassment of the Star’s headline had passed. He would not receive more than a stray stare, if he chose to enter the building. But, despite her confusion, she did not force him to shout his reasons like a nervous Romeo, and instead closed the window, then darted out of her office, down the staircase, and out of the building. When she met him outside, he did not greet her with any physical contact—not a hug, not a kiss, not a touch. Instead, he bowed his head—as if he were some sort of prudent Regency gentleman—and began to walk. 

Jane could not stand the distance, nor the silence. She broke both as soon as soon as she could, laying her hand on the wide expanse of his shoulder blade and asking, “What, then, are these serious matters?” 

The light of the street-fires penetrated the evening darkness and afforded her a view of his face. But she did not enjoy the view; Edmund directed his eyes to the street in front of them, rather than towards her. She felt the muscles in his back tense as he muttered, “I have been told to end our relationship.” 

Jane stopped walking. Her breath stopped also. Her hand dropped from Edmund’s back, falling to her side with a quiet slap. 

At first, it seemed that Edmund did not realize she no longer walked beside him. He took several steps before he glanced about himself, stopped, and turned to find her. 

With her heart beating a wild pace, she waited until he met her eyes to ask, “You have been told?”

He kept his distance. “Yes.” 

“By whom?” 

“The Yard.” 

“The _ Yard_?” Her voice rose in pitch and volume. She stepped toward him. 

“Yes,” he replied, stepping backward. 

Frustration and fury rose within her, and she did not bother to keep it from her tone. “_Who _ at the Yard?”

“My Commissioner, Jane.”

“On what grounds?”

“On ethical grounds.” 

“Ethical gr—”

“Yes! Ethical grounds!” This time, he closed the distance between them, but only to prevent her from shouting louder—or so she suspected. When he grasped her forearm, she flinched; he had never taken hold of her with such force, and she tried to squirm away from him, instinctively fearful and defensive. 

“Edmund, stop. Don’t—”

He released her immediately, bowing his head and breathing hard. “I am...I am sorry, Jane. I am—” He pushed a visible swallow of saliva down his throat before he drew a deep breath, rubbed his open palms over his thighs, and continued. “I am, technically, still married, and my superiors do not approve of one of their officers being openly unfaithful to his wife.” 

Jane brushed past the topic of Edmund’s wife—not because she did not respect the woman, but because she and Edmund had spoken of Emily before, and at great length. They had discussed Edmund’s relationship with her. His feelings towards her, some of which continued even now, and with good reason. He had chronicled how he had done wrong by her, and described the guilt that lingered within him. He had explained his refusal to divorce, based on the same ethical qualms of his superiors that drove their objection to his relationship with Jane. He continued to detail Emily’s current condition, and how that condition, combined with the irreversible collapse of their marriage, had made Edmund seek companionship and love elsewhere. And how he had found it, now, with Jane. 

And that had been enough. Jane had accepted all this, content with knowing that Edmund loved her, that he wanted to be with her, and that he promised to remain open with her about his family that had come before. So she set Emily aside and focused on the immediate consequences that dangled before them, asking with no small measure of contempt, “And, for this—with no regard for the particulars of your life—the Commissioner may sack you, on _ ethical _grounds.” 

“Jane, the man can sack me on a drunken whim.” He moved with abrupt, restless gestures. And she let him do so, refusing to be distracted by them. “He can do as he pleases. And if he chooses to enforce unreasonable ethical standards, he may do so.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, tempted to smile, when he qualified his Commissioner’s standards as _ unreasonable. _

“But, Jane,” he added. “I am not here to end our relationship.” 

She had feared it—that he would end their relationship, as directed. It seemed like him—a servant of law, rank, and greater good. So she could not help but flash a full, unrestrained smile at his news. “You are not?”

He shook his head in confirmation. “I confess, at first, I felt I had no choice. And I had written you a letter that—”

Her heart clenched. Sank. And she met his eyes with a hard stare. “A letter?” 

He breathed a soft laugh and glanced at the cobblestones. “Yes, I realize now that ending our relationship with a letter would have been...upsetting to you.” 

She folded her arms in front of her. “Yes, I would say so, Edmund.” 

He hurried to speak, lunging for her, taking several unbalanced steps towards her. “But Captain Jackson urged me to reconsider my course of action, and I am...I am grateful for it.” 

To Jane’s weighty relief, Edmund took hold of both her hands and squeezed them with gentle affection. His thumbs drew long, straight lines over her fingers and the back of her palm. She stared at his mouth, watching his tongue wet his lips, but managed to listen when he spoke. 

“Even as I wrote,” he said, moving his hands to her wrists. “I did not wish to terminate our relationship. I am calm, Jane, when I am with you. I feel valued and...” 

Her breath hitched when he released her wrists, only to clutch at her waist—both of his hands pulling her close, near to him—almost against him. But not quite. 

“And,” he continued. “And cared for and…” Pausing, he raised his eyes to hers and blinked at her for a moment. She did not rush him to continue, but waited in silence, laying her hands on his forearms. It was as if her touch revived his voice. “Happy, Jane,” he said, as if it were a revelation, even to himself. “And I cannot allow this directive to—not when I have found the—or rather that Jackson has shown that I possess the strength—to pursue that happiness.” 

His assurances to her, made so recently, did not need to travel far along the path of her memory to rush back to her. With a playful smile, she squeezed his forearms. “Well, I must remember to thank Captain Jackson when our paths cross again, so long as he can look me in the eye without embarrassment.” 

She hoped to coax a smile from him, however small, but his expression remained somber. “But, you realize, do you not—this means we must conduct our relationship in secret?” 

She nodded. “I did realize that, yes.” 

“But, uh…” He blinked, still troubled. “You did not want that. You specifically said you did not want that.” 

“And I still do not want that, but, Edmund,” she said, sliding her hand up his arm and over his shoulder, then around the back of his neck. “I would rather be with you in secret than not at all.” 

“Really?” he asked, meeting her eyes with more earnest anxiety than she had ever seen. He gripped her forearms and held onto her, as if he feared she would flee if he did not. 

She nodded, then replied, “Of course. I am—God help me—I am quite in love with you, Edmund.” 

_ Now_, he finally smiled—flimsy and fleeting, but a smile nonetheless. 

His visible, silent relief made a slow tide of warmth lap at her heart, and, overcome with boldness, she pushed him backwards until he struck the brick wall behind him. Edmund’s eyes widened with surprise and, as his mouth opened, she curled her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. With her eyes closed, she kissed him with slow leisure. He did not try to supplant her pace or deepen the kiss; instead he squeezed her wrist with one hand, her hip with the other, and hummed in the back of his throat. Angling his head, he provided her with more access and allowed her to explore his mouth at her pleasure—and she took the opportunity. With her tongue, she traced his top lip from one corner of his mouth to the other, then slipped past his lips to taste him. Whiskey and—if she was not mistaken—shortbread. 

A joyful, passionate thrill filled her chest, and she smiled into the kiss with the realization that this—now, with Edmund—was the first time she had kissed a man. Not her first kiss, no. But she had only ever _ been kissed_. No other man had ever allowed her such control. No other man had ever submitted so easily and completely to her wishes, her actions, her advances. And it set a fire within her that she wanted to inflame. 

So she dropped her hand from his neck and seized his hand as she ended their kiss to meet his eyes. “Come home with me.” 

A heavy curtain of remorse shaded his expression as he stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “I would like that, Jane. You know I would, but I cannot. Perhaps later, but not now.” 

Despite his refusal, she kept a firm hold of his hand, hopeful she could still convince him. “Why? I—” She squeezed his hand. “I want you, Edmund.” 

She heard, even in the one breathy exhale that left him, his attempt to regain control of himself. He looked over the top of her head, to the side, down at his feet—everywhere, it seemed, but her face. “You will think it silly,” he said, glancing at their joined hands. “But I am expected at a boxing match in...” He checked his pocket watch. “A quarter-hour. I _ must _be there, Jane.” 

Although she did not say it, she _ did _ think it silly. She tried to disguise her judgement when she echoed, “A _ box_ing match?” Based on her tone and Edmund’s cringe, she had not succeeded. 

He twisted his hand free of hers and raised his chin. “Think what you like,” he replied, his voice bristly and sharp. “But it is a police tradition. And I do not only have a man in the final match, but there are...other reasons I must be there.” 

“Do you have interests in the outcome?” she teased. “Have you placed a bet?”

“No, but the opponent is…” He paused, then continued a second later, still grave in tone and expression. “Not a friend to any man of my division.” 

“An enemy, then?” 

He nodded. 

“For what reason?”

“Many reasons.” 

Edmund’s reluctance to share the details of his—and, by extension, his division’s—conflict with this man fueled her curiosity. And her concern. As she watched a darkness fall over his face, she felt driven not only to discover the particulars of Edmund’s feud, but also to ensure his safety. “Perhaps you can recount them while I accompany you to the match.” 

”No,” he said, his voice firm and certain. “I do not want you at the match.” 

Again, she tried to reestablish a lighthearted tone. “Do you fear my female sensibilities would be affronted by such violence?”

He did not take her bait and, instead, took hold of her arm and pulled her close to him. “I _ fear _the violence will not limit itself to the ring,” he whispered with a frayed, raw voice that sent a hot shiver down her body. “And I would not put you in the way of that violence.” He searched her eyes and, with a soft, tender touch, he cupped her face, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. 

Dozens of words, phrases, slices of words and phrases—dozens spiraled through her head. Unasked questions. Further professions of love. Desperate pleas. When Edmund dropped his hand away from her face, she realized she had remained quiet for some time. As her heart drummed an odd rhythm of love and anxiety, she uttered the first thought that escaped her brain. “I expect you will return to Leman Street afterwards?”

“I expect so, yes.” 

“I will wait for you there.” 

“No, Jane, you do not need to—”

“I know I did not need to, but I need to—I want to know—” She tried to form the words that rushed through her mind. _ I need to see you. I need to know that you were not hurt. I need to be with you. _

She did not know if he truly understood—if he had seen into her mind, or simply felt the same, _ wanted _the same. But, as he kissed her, satin-soft relief and sharp, painful love for him bloomed in her chest like a thorny-stemmed rose. She stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, even after he broke their kiss and touched his forehead to hers. His breath rushed over her face and she looked at him—what little of his face she could see—and watched as he squeezed his eyes shut. She had no care to move and, so, stayed in his embrace—his hands and arms pressed hard to her back. 

“Edmund.” 

“Hmm?” His eyes remained closed. His body did not move. 

Weaving her hands into his hair, she brushed his cheek with an airy kiss. “Please take care, Edmund. Please stay safe. Promise me you will come back to me in one piece.” 

And even though he had laughed and nodded—even though he had promised—she would not believe it until she saw him walk into his office and return to her. Unassisted. Uninjured. On his own two legs. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his way to win back Susan, Jackson has two unexpected encounters to which he must attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing has been so, so difficult lately. All the craziness, all the stress, all the changes...they’ve been affecting me a lot. So thank you for your patience. I had a very good writing day today and I hope the trend continues. But I’m sorry I’ve been slow. Thanks to all who are reading and following this story! It really means a lot to me. <3

On that, the same night as the LaFone Cup, Jackson had some heavyweight business of his own. A little over an hour after he’d sent Reid out of the station and on his way to Councillor Cobden’s door, Jackson peeked at his watch and launched his plan—his and Daniel’s and Susan’s. His part, anyhow. 

As he darted out the station house door, he threw a desperate prayer to that spiteful God above that his co-conspirators had already set their own wheels to rollin’. Susan with that pig-faced shit-streak, and Daniel with the rock. 

If any one of them failed, Jackson knew he could kiss his chances with Susan to the dirty London wind. 

His feet slammed hard on the stones as he hurried around the corner. He had plenty of time, but his muscles twitched with the need to move and, as others liked to remind him, there wasn’t no harm in makin’ it to your destination early. 

Maybe _ some _harm, he admitted, when his haste almost made a pancake of a classy lady in the street. 

“Oh!” Her shriek cut into his ears as they all but bounced off each other like a pair of billiard balls. 

Jackson righted himself and cleared his throat, his eyes and chin downcast. “Sorry, Miss. Didn’t see you there.” 

He attempted to sidestep the woman, but she froze him when she exclaimed, “Captain! Captain Jackson!” 

Few women these days made his insides relax at the sound of their voices, but this woman seemed so damn pleased to see him that he could not help but stop to take a look at her face. And what a face. All smiles, blue eyes, and happiness stamped across those cherry-ripe cheeks. 

Reid was such a lucky bastard. 

“Councillor.” He tipped his hat. “Nice to happen across you, though I expect you’re here for someone else.” 

Perhaps it was a play of shadows, but Jackson thought he saw a blush surface on her face. 

“Indeed,” she confirmed. “I come here to wait for his return from the match.” 

“So he told you about that, huh?” Jackson didn’t know what Reid and the rest of them intended to do at the match, but he knew the chances that a wholly different match would erupt between Shine and Reid—or Shine and Bennet, Shine and Take-Your-Pick-Of-Any-H-Division-Man—were high. As high as the God damn heavens. Jackson was surprised—and impressed—that Reid had spoken about it at all. 

“A little,” she replied. “When he came to assure me he intended to flout his superiors and pursue our relationship.” She offered him a warm smile. “A decision for which I have you to thank, as I understand it.” 

Well, God damn. Genuine thanks. Another sentiment so rarely leveled in his direction. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and, with a scrape of his heel on the cobbles, mumbled, “He needs a push from time to time is all.” 

“It was a push much appreciated.”

“Glad to hear it, Councillor, I am, but—”

“Oh, do not tell me you must run.” 

“I, uh...well, I’m due at—”

“I hoped you would join me in Edmund’s office. Keep me company while I wait.” 

Jackson felt trapped like a fly in a honey trap. Trapped by her charm and warm smile. He wondered if those qualities had helped win her votes; no doubt they had, but at least they were genuine. As much as he could tell, anyway. With a glance at his watch, he calculated the time he could spare.

“Afraid I can’t stay long,” he said. 

“Are you expected at the match as well?”

Jackson snorted a quick laugh. “Nah, no, not me. This way, d—” He almost said ‘darlin’’ as he guided her into the alley to their right, but he corrected and said, “Down to the back.” 

“There’s a back?”

“Goes through the training yard. Helpful if you want to keep a low profile.” Helpful also if you wanted to move bodies into his Dead Room without a fuss, but he didn’t tell her that. In a matter of minutes, Jackson escorted her through the back entrance, which opened at the bottom of the stairs that led to Leman Street’s dank, basement jail cells. He led her up those stairs and, with caution, slipped past the main desk, and up another set of stairs to Reid’s office. The entire time, neither of them spoke and nobody paid them any mind.

In Reid’s office, Jackson shut the door and offered up some of Reid’s whiskey. He didn’t think Reid would mind if it meant his woman was kept happy. 

Jane took a seat in one of the guest chairs at Reid’s desk, waving her hand. “No, thank you, Captain.” 

Jackson took a swig for himself. “You know, Miss...Ma’am—” He didn’t know what she preferred. “The longer we’re in each other’s acquaintance, the more names you’ll hear me called, but you can call me Jackson.”

“What does Edmund call you?”

“Various,” he admitted, not without amusement. “Sometimes, it’s ‘Captain.’ Sometimes it’s ‘Jackson.’ Sometimes it’s ‘Captain Jackson.’ And _ some_times the bastard whole-names me and calls me ‘Homer Jackson.’” 

“Homer? I do not believe I knew your first name until this moment.” 

“No? Well. That’s it,” he said, aware of the remorse that flared inside him. “What d’ya think of it?”

“Oh, it is...epic. Grand.” 

“Only quality about me that is,” he said, throwing back another shot of Reid’s whiskey. “Now _ your _name—”

“Is pedestrian,” she said. “My parents were creative with neither my sister nor myself. Anne and Jane.” 

He pointed at her. “They’ve even got three of the same letters.” 

At this, she doubled over in her chair with robust laughter. “How very observant!” she said. “No wonder Edmund values your input so much.” When her chuckles subsided, she added, “You may call me Jane, between ourselves.” She stretched out her hand. “We are friends now, I hope.” 

With a small smile, Jackson stepped toward her. “I’d say so, Jane.” He took her hand and shook it. He would admit it to no one, but a wash of warm relief and gratitude flooded him then. He could count his true allies and friends on one hand and hers was a valuable friendship—well-positioned and influential. It would, he suspected, make his life easier. And since he had earned it with goodwill, it felt all the more solid in its foundation. “Must be on my way now,” he said, releasing her hand and moving toward the door. 

“Jackson?”

With his hand on the doorknob, he turned toward her. 

“Would you mind if I...sought your advice? From time to time? Edmund thinks of you as a friend and I suspect you know him better than most, and I’m sure there will come a time I could use your insight.” 

Jackson watched her as she rambled. She twisted her hands, tilted her head, and curled forward—a picture of love-struck insecurity. Reid really was a lucky bastard. 

With a nod, Jackson replied, “Any time. Reid’s a tough oyster to shuck, I’ll give you that.” 

Jane’s face softened with an affectionate grin. “My deepest thanks, Jackson.” 

“Not a problem,” he said, then, with another tip of his hat, slipped from the room, down the stairs, and—once again—out the station house door. And—once again—he collided with someone as he sped around the corner. 

“Jesus!” he yelled. “Can’t everyone just stay out of my God damned way, for the love of—” In the middle of his tirade, his eyes found the face of the person who stood before him, and he snapped his mouth shut. 

“Why, Captain Jackson.” Fred Best’s lips curled in a smug smirk, even as he adjusted his hat and spectacles. “To where do we rush off with such speed?” 

Jackson pushed his words past clenched teeth. “Ain’t none of your business, Best.” 

“Well, perhaps you can tell me, then: is it my business that I saw you whisk Councillor Cobden into the back entrance to Leman Street?”

Jackson worried he would roll his eyes clear out of his head. “Oh, come on, Best—”

“Aiding and abetting another late night rendezvous, are we?”

It seemed like the time to take a page from Reid’s book, not only because time continued to tick away, but because Jackson’s patience wore thin. So he seized hold of Best’s coat and slammed the man against the nearest wall. “I said this ain’t none of your business, Best. You’ve had your headline. Leave it alone.” 

Best stared into his face, unintimidated and calm. He allowed Jackson to pin him there, using no energy to try to free himself. Only his eyes and mouth moved. “While you may not believe the people have a right to know of the goings-on between two government officials, I do—”

Jackson scoffed. “Reid’s a _ cop_. He’s not a _ government official_. Christ, Best.” 

“So say _ you_, Captain. But the Queen would disagree.” 

Jackson pressed Best harder against the wall. “Yeah, well, so what?”

“So what?” Best echoed with a wry laugh. “So, there is ripe potential for a conflict of interest. Misuse of funds. Coercion. Corruption.” 

“Not here.” 

Best raised his eyebrows. “And you can say that with absolute certainty?”

Jackson stared at him. Hard. Unblinking. “I can say a lot of things.” 

“Is that so, Captain?”

“Things you’d be interested in, I imagine.” 

“And what are those, Captain, if not the nighttime romps of our friends Miss Cobden and Mister Reid?” 

Jackson swallowed. He knew full well that he had information Best would value. And print. Still grasping Best by the coat, Jackson said, “I can offer you updates once a week.” 

“Updates?” Best said—almost _ sang—_playing dumb, as if he had no clue of Jackson’s meaning. “Concerning what?”

Jackson squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then resumed his stare, setting his jaw before he replied. “Concerning all our current investigations. Everything I know of ‘em. And, in exchange, you’ll lay off the Inspector and Councillor. That suit you?” 

Best stroked his chin. “Personally, I am of the opinion that gossip would sell more papers,” he mused, almost bored, as if he had entertained this conversation more times than he could count. “But I suppose the activities of law enforcement in this quarter are of more substantive import.” Then Best held out his hand. “You have my word. Nothing of their personal affair, so long as you provide me with weekly updates on all police activity originating from this station house.” 

It seemed too easy. It seemed like Best had agreed too quickly. Jackson had expected more of a fight, and now he eyed Best with skepticism. “You know I have ways to make you suffer, Best, if you go back on your word?” 

Best grinned. “Oh, I’m well aware. And _ you _ know I will be prepared to print every move of our good Inspector and Councillor as soon as you betray _ your _word, do you not?” 

For a few seconds, Jackson mirrored Best’s stare. Neither of them turned away. Neither of them moved. Not for several quiet drawn-out minutes. 

Finally, Jackson said, “You keep to the agreement, so will I.” Then he released Best, who patted himself down. Dust floated off his clothes and disappeared into the air around him. 

With a satisfied smile, Best tipped his hat. “Until this time next week, Captain.” 

Jackson stood motionless until Best rounded the corner. Then he took off at a run, his brain tangled with agreement upon agreement, promise upon promise. He hoped he could keep track of every thread. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Jane waiting in Edmund’s office, the boys of H Division return after the LaFone Cup Championship match. Immediate concerns keep her from asking for details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all, for dealing with the slower-than-usual updates. Writing has been tough lately, but I’m hopeful that it’s getting back on track. :) Thanks to everyone who is reading. Thanks to all who take the time to comment—it really means a lot, especially when writing hasn’t been easy lately. *hugs*

After Captain Jackson—or, rather, just _ Jackson_—left, Jane waited alone in Edmund’s office for over an hour. 

In that hour—and some minutes—she acquainted herself with Edmund’s office. She examined his pen, paper, the structure and quality of his chairs, the scratches that marred the wood of his desk. She peered out the window, trying to look past the black-and-grey streaks and determine whether the glass had ever been cleaned since its installation. With a keen, interested eye, she studied the case files he had stacked at the far left corner of his desk. She read the labels, but did not dare open the folders; she knew their contents were not hers to read. More than most, she knew the importance of boundaries and discretion. 

So she resumed her seat. 

And patted her knees. Restless. 

Silence permeated the station house. The room. The air within the room. 

The still, heavy silence remained until an unmistakable tsunami of voices overtook the station and threatened to drown her in its unyielding wave of noise. The raucous voices of men swirled about her in various pitches and volumes. Shouts and hoots. Yells and yips. She had never heard their approach, somehow, but now she could hear no other sound. 

Her back stiffened as the sound spread out. It must have reached every corner. Seeped into the floorboards. Risen to the chimney tops. The footsteps of men, like five-toed hammers, battered the corridors, the stairs, the offices. As men made their way to the first floor, words became clearer. Clearer still, as men halted only just outside Edmund’s door. 

A young, happy voice: “I still can’t believe it!” 

Another, deep and equally happy: “And on the first punch! Unprecedented!” 

“Well, only because he danced about for three rounds.”

“Oh, shut it, Wilkins! You wish you were _ half _the boxer!” 

“Come on! It was luck! I’m thrilled to pieces we won, but it was still luck! You can’t deny it!”

“Luck or no,” the first happy voice volleyed. “Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than skilled.” 

“Yes, yes! Thank you, Constables!”

At this last and new voice, anticipation jettisoned into her chest. Her stomach. Her pelvis. Her skin and muscles. Into the very tips of her hair. When the authoritative boom of Edmund’s voice drew near, Jane pulled her shoulders back and sat tall, then held herself with all the stillness of a marble sculpture. 

“I believe you have posts to assume. Best see to them,” Edmund said.

“But sir, I haven‘t got a shift until tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Then to your home, Barrow! I expect you rested and ready for duty when you report tomorrow. And _ on time! _ I will not tolerate your lateness more than once!”

And in a matter of seconds, Edmund tread into the office with heavy boots, then past her, and then to his desk chair, where he slumped, elbows on his desk and forehead in his hands. A great invisible weight seemed to settle on his shoulders. 

Jane watched him, wishing to lift that weight and cast it aside, but she stayed still. Absolutely frozen.

As Edmund filled his lungs, he was—as far as she could tell—unaware of her. 

She dared not breathe. 

She dared not move. 

Outside his office, the rambunctious frivolity faded. Within minutes, quiet surrounded them as if it were the late hours of snow-heavy winter. Jane wondered how often this situation repeated, how often he restored order to a rowdy division and retreated to his office for a calm moment, overcome with exhaustion. And alone. With no comfort but his own. 

She sensed that few others—if any—had witnessed him in such a private state. In a way, she felt a voyeur. But in another, she was aware of a certain privilege. Whatever his reaction when he finally discovered her, she had seen him—seen him tired and vulnerable. She had seen him with his defenses lowered. A facade stripped away.

He kept his head lowered as he breathed, one deep breath after another. His hands still covered his face, but she suspected it bore the same marks as his body, those of slouched, weary exhaustion. She wished to reach out and touch him. Soothe him. Brush her knuckles over the side of his face and across his lips. To open her hand and cup his opposite cheek—her palm a little basin into which he could collapse. 

But she remained as she was, as still as a stone. She continued to watch him. Every tiny, subtle movement of his body.

All her hopes of remaining unnoticed vanished as soon as he lifted his face. Instead of the tired lines she had expected, his face bore a collection of fresh injuries—and a first glimpse of them was enough to make her gasp, loud and sharp. His bottom lip had split at the center. Both lips appeared a deeper color than normal, both fatter than usual. Another cut—this one deeper—had opened at the end of his eyebrow. The blood had stopped flowing, but it had crusted and dried in a line beside the corner of his eye. His cheek was scuffed pink and swollen. Apparently, his earlier suspicions had not been misplaced; it seemed the fight had, at some point, moved beyond the ring. 

Edmund echoed her gasp and threw himself backwards. His back struck his chair with enough force to make it creak in protest. His chest heaved with frantic, surprised breaths as his eyes met hers. 

“Jane,” he wheezed, dazed, as if she had clocked him over the head with a cricket bat. “Jane. My God. Have you, uh...have you been here this whole time?”

She nodded. “Jackson led me in through the back.” She did not wish to dwell on how she came to be there and, so, tried to shift his attention away from it. “Edmund, are you all right?” 

To her dismay, he ignored her question. “Jackson let you in? Is he still here?”

“Yes.” Despite herself, a smile made the corners of her mouth twitch. “He is a fascinating man, your friend. He left quite some time ago, but I can see what I can do to fetch him. Do you”—she watched as Edmund’s focus dwindled and leaned forward to consume more of his field of vision—“Edmund, do you need medical care?” 

He stared at his desk, at some spot a few inches in front of her. “Through the back…” he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. Deep creases of bewilderment appeared between his eyebrows. 

Impatience edged her concern. He seemed scattered. Unable to focus. It was not like him. 

Worried that his injuries were worse than they appeared, her impatience faded, and she reached across his desk to take his hand. “Edmund, look at me.” 

He blinked at her as if she had just woken him from sleep. 

“Should I fetch you a doctor?”

Again, confusion washed over his face. “No,” he finally replied. “No, I...I, uh, I’m sorry, I thought to come here and rest. I did not—I’m sorry, but I did not expect to see you here.” 

Jane hoped she did not look too much like a fish when, against her will, her mouth fell open. She snapped it closed as soon as possible and did her best to hide her own bewilderment. “You did not—” She stopped, then started again, this time with a calmer, quieter voice. “You did not expect to see me here? I told you I would wait for you here.” She squeezed his hand and brushed her thumb over his fingers. 

For the first time since he found her there, his expression crinkled with distress. Doubt flitted across his face as he searched his memory. After a moment, he frowned, raising his eyes to hers. “You did?”

She nodded. “Can you not remember?” 

His breath wavered as it left him. His throat bobbed with a swallow. He shook his head. 

“But you recall visiting my office? Or rather,” she added with a soft smile, “the street outside my office?” 

“Yes. Yes, of course. But I cannot…” He released a frustrated breath. “So much has happened…”

She hoped he would tell her exactly what _ had _happened, but he fell silent and proceeded to make a very serious study of his ink blotter. He only revived his voice when she stood up and made for the door. 

“Where are you going?” 

“You need care, Edmund, and I am no doctor. Stay here. I will return in a moment.” 

Outside Edmund’s office, she stopped the first policeman that crossed her path, a young constable named Wood. Like Edmund, Wood bore the marks of a scuffle; superficial cuts and scratches peppered his face. And while her curiosity rose, she kept herself focused. 

Constable Wood did not question her when she asked him to find Captain Jackson and send him to her home address. 

Within ten minutes, she led Edmund out of the back of the station house and loaded him into a hansom, where he slouched down and let his head rest on her shoulder. She kept hold of his hat with one hand and laid the other on his thigh, maintaining constant contact until they arrived outside her door. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson responds to a special request.

Jackson had only just left Blewitt’s and stepped into the thick clouds of street-fire smoke when a rosey-faced constable appeared like a God-damn apparition in front of him with a note in his hand. Jackson’s third near-collision of the day. First Jane, then Best, now this kid. The boy-officer waved the paper in front of his face. 

Jackson spied the H on his collar and clenched his jaw. 

The young constable hadn’t yet caught his breath, so Jackson took full advantage, and tried to sidestep him toward the narrow, shadowy laneway to his left. But Jackson lurched to a stop when a hand grasped his shirt sleeve and halted his escape. 

“Well, God damn, you’re a mighty-brave beanpole, aren’t you?” Jackson smirked. New recruits often lacked the resolve of their superiors, and, although Jackson did not know his name, Jackson saw his inexperience as plain as he saw the nose on his face. He’d wager the kid hadn’t been enlisted for more than a month. 

Whatever his exact tenure, the constable planted his feet, refusing to relinquish his hold on Jackson’s sleeve. “Captain Jackson, you’re needed at this address, quick-like.” 

“Quick-like, huh?” Jackson did not care to answer Reid’s call at all, never mind ‘quick-like.’ Not now. Not with his brother on the run—and all of Jackson’s cash on the run with him. Not when his wife—the God damn love of his life—not only maintained a hot hatred for him, but could articulate the strength of that hatred to his face. After the failure that summarized the evening, he had decided upon an intimate rendezvous with a bottle of whiskey. But apparently the world could not allow him even the smallest of respites. 

“Please, Captain,” the constable pleaded. “Miss Cobden asked for you. She seemed…” He dropped his hand, and the note with it, as he searched for words. “Distressed, sir.” 

“Miss Cobden?” Jackson asked, surprised and intrigued. He stepped toward the young officer, lowering his chin. “Not Reid?” 

“No, sir. The Inspector has no need of you tonight. Not as far as I know, at least.” 

Jackson lunged for the note and swiped it from the constable’s hand. He did not recognize the address, but he suspected it was the location of Jane’s home. “You know this address?” 

The officer shook his head. “I do not, sir.” He paused. “I do not know it personally, mind, but I am certain I can find it with a quick peek at a map, sir, if—”

Jackson nodded, pocketing the paper. “I’m sure you could, but how ‘bout you run back to Leman Street?” 

“But sir—”

“Look, stop callin’ me _ sir_, first of all. Second, you’ve done your duty, now run on back before your superior officers start wonderin’ after why in the hell you took orders from a civilian woman.” 

That did it. Jackson looked on with satisfaction as the constable scampered away. He knew he’d done Jane a disservice by calling her a ‘civilian woman’—she was a government official, after all—but he’d had to rid himself of her messenger before he became his tail. 

When he arrived at the address Jane had scrawled with a neat, even hand on the scrap of paper in his pocket, he, first, congratulated himself on the accuracy of his hunch and, second, admired the elegance and grandeur of the place.

It rose up three stories. Purple wisteria climbed along one side of its black door. Multi-paned windows broke up the white face, somehow spared the dust and soot that seemed to coat the entire city. It suited her. 

So did the interior, which was no less stately. Jackson followed a housemaid across thick carpets. Tight weaves. Colorful. Expensive. Fine wood, polished to a spotless shine, made up the furniture, some upholstered with luxurious fabric. Painted landscapes housed in embellished, gilded frames added color to the walls. Jackson had never learned much about art, but he could tell the frames, at least, could fetch a decent price. More color on the tables. Lilacs and tulips, which made the air smell sweet, fresh. This air was not filled with the stuffy, heavy stink of loneliness, pity, and whiskey. Floral scents mixed with talcum powder. Fresh bread. And women. Like home. Like a peaceful, untroubled home. 

By the time he found himself in a bedroom on the third floor, he was damn-well convinced he would be happy to die there, surrounded by such ample, cozy comfort. 

Except for this bedroom, because _ this _ bedroom contained the man he had expected to see, but not in the state he had expected to find him. Reid sat at the foot of the bed, subdued. Quiet little _ click _ s came from his direction as he scraped dirt from under his nails. His face bore the kind and number of scratches, cuts, and bruises Jackson had come to expect to see on _ himself, _not Reid, and, as much as he itched to learn the source of Reid’s injuries, he swallowed his questions and said only, “Reid.” 

Jackson removed his hat as he approached his friend--his boss, his friend-boss--who looked up from his hands, let his head fall toward his shoulder, and blinked slowly. Jackson tossed his hat onto the bed while Reid turned his head and shouted, “You called for _ Jack_son?” 

The answer came from an adjacent room. “Would you prefer someone else? Someone less discrete, perhaps? I know of a surgeon who reports nearly all of his cases to the highest bidder. Is that what you want?”

Reid snapped back to face him, rolling his eyes. Jackson grinned. It was their common curse, to love smart women. 

“Aw, come on, Reid,” Jackson teased, dropping his hat and bag onto the mattress. “I ain’t that bad.” 

Reid had the sense to lower his chin and avert his gaze, albeit with a clenched jaw. As much as he enjoyed watching Reid bow with humility, he had work to do—so he cupped Reid’s chin and raised his face so he could have a proper look at him. “That’s what I thought,” he said, scanning his friend’s face. 

Someone had landed a few decent punches. Maybe more than a few. But the cuts weren’t deep. No stitches required. Just disinfection. A good cleaning. “So,” Jackson said, rifling through his bag for bandages and a small bottle of disinfectant. “Who roughed you up?”

“My question exactly,” Jane said, strolling into the room with her hair down and two glasses in her hands—one white wine, one whiskey. “But he seems particularly tight-lipped.” 

Reid scowled at Jane, who offered the glass of whiskey to Jackson. Reid deepened his scowl. 

“My thanks, Jackson,” Jane said, sipping her wine. “For responding so quickly.” 

A flash of heat warmed his cheeks—a blush, a God damned _ blush_—as he took the glass. “It’s no trouble. For a friend.” 

At this, Reid’s eyebrows almost became one with his hairline, and Jackson tipped his head back—and some whiskey down his throat—to hide the smile that started to spread across his face. 

Even with provocation, Reid couldn’t stop himself from asking, “You’re friends now, are you?”

Jackson had his answer ready. “So what if we are?” He set his glass down on the bedside table.

Reid blinked. Stayed quiet. Sulked, even. 

Good. 

With a smirk, Jane joined Reid on the bed, taking hold of his hand.

Jackson felt both their gazes on him as he worked. He soaked a bandage in disinfectant, then scrubbed at Reid’s face, not as gently as he should have. Reid gasped through clenched teeth, but it did not make Jackson treat him with any less severity. Reid, at this moment, was a convenient outlet for his frustrations—not to mention a captive audience—and, as Jackson pressed, rubbed, and scoured Reid’s skin, he took advantage of Reid’s position. “So, Reid,” he said, wiping dried blood away from the deepest cut, making Reid suck in a mouthful of air, which he ignored. “Last I heard you were headed to the Cup match to look after...what’s his name?” 

Reid glared at him, responding with what Jackson imagined to be his deepest, most purposefully intimidating voice. “Wainwright.”

“_That’s _ it. Wainwright,” Jackson said, tossing the rust-red bandage into a small bin beside the door before taking up another. “Now, correct me if I’m mistaken here, Reid, but as far as I understood it, you didn’t exactly have plans to enter the ring yourself. Plans change?”

Reid’s hands spread wide over his knees, then clenched around fistfuls of fabric. “No,” he replied. 

Jackson had spent enough time in the company of policeman to know that Reid was trying to end his line of questioning. He glanced at Jane, who flashed him a quick smile and nodded; that was all the encouragement he needed. “Oh, well,” Jackson said, applying a clean bandage to the laceration along Reid’s eyebrow. “Then I can only assume you were the victim of some terrible ambush, because the Edmund Reid I know never would have instigated a melee of—”

“If you _ must _know,” Reid said, raising his voice. “Yes, there was...I would not call it an ambush, but a—”

“Brawl?”

“A skirmish.” 

Jane’s smile curved along the edge of her glass as she watched and listened.

“A skirmish? Well, do tell, Inspector. Here I thought you would have leapt at any chance to destroy Inspector Shine yourself, Reid.” 

“Yes, I...would have, if the situation had allowed, if I’m honest.” 

As Reid’s response hovered in the air, Jane sat up, her back straight and chin raised. She lowered her glass and rested it on her thigh. Then she stared at Reid, who closed his eyes and dropped his head. 

“But when I entered the hall, the match had already begun. And I caused a distraction sufficient enough to allow Wainwright to deliver a blow so hard and unexpected that it knocked Shine off his feet. He was unconscious before he hit the canvas, apparently.” 

Shock splattered Jane’s face. Her mouth fell open. Her glass shook. 

Leave it to a lady to make him abandon his efforts to embarrass his friend. “You should understand, Jane. Shine…” Jackson searched for words. “Shine was a...truly corrupt policeman, even by my standards. He—” 

“He murdered my friend.” 

Jane’s head snapped toward Reid, who peered down at his hands. 

“Not my friend,” Reid added. “But...someone I respected.” 

“Why?” Jane asked.

“Because he wished to tell the truth.”

“About what?”

“About his witnessing of another murder.”

At Jane’s confused expression, Jackson supplied more details. “Before he killed this, uh...respected man, Joseph Merrick, Shine killed another—”

“Joseph Merrick?” Jane asked. “The Elephant Man?”

“Yes”—Jackson nodded—“although I would advise you not—”

Reid raised his head and looked Jane in the face. “Do not call him by that name,”he instructed. “He did not appreciate it.” 

“Yes. Yes of course.” Jane sagged, her spine curved and eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, Edmund.” She paused to take another sip of wine. “So, before Mr. Merrick, this Shine—he killed another?”

Both Reid and Jackson nodded. 

Jackson said, “Another policeman.”

“Of his own division,” Edmund added, his mouth twisted with disgust. “One who was prepared to speak against him.” 

“And so he silenced him,” Jane whispered. She turned to Reid, and for a moment Jackson was jealous of how she stroked Reid’s hair, how she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pressed her forehead to the side of his face.

Jackson busied himself with stuffing his unused supplies back into his bag, but, after a couple silent minutes, Jane spoke again, making Jackson pause and refocus his attention. 

“But if Shine was rendered unconscious,” she said. “ Then how...what happened? If there was a skirmish, as you say, who was it with?”

Reid glanced at the ceiling and sighed. Then he looked down and scratched at his fingernails, digging the dirt out from under each of them in turn.

“Just tell her.” Jackson did not know himself, but he knew Reid would be more convinced to spill his secrets if he appealed on Jane’s behalf, rather than his own. And sure enough: 

“The men of K Division—Shine’s division—they came down upon me and my men. Rained violence down upon us as soon as the match ended.” Reid paused, biting his lip, giving a little shake of his head. “Shine should have won. Everyone—even I—expected it. Shine’s men accused us of cheating, although how we would have cheated, I do not know. We—myself and my men—we escaped when we could.”

This time, Jane sighed. Jackson watched as she touched Reid’s face. Kissed his cheek. Squeezed his hand. Jackson slid his tongue over his teeth, annoyed at the sting in the center of his chest. Annoyed at his own jealousy, because, damn it, Reid deserved this. He deserved this—the soft and compassionate touch of a woman who loved him. 

Jackson forced himself to look away from them, to see to his things. 

Nobody spoke for some time. 

Once Jackson had rounded up his things, he stepped out of the room to request another glass of whiskey from the housemaid, who fetched it quickly. 

He delivered it to Reid, who took it with a woeful, but grateful stretch of his lips—not a smile, as such, but an acknowledgment. “Thank you, Captain,” Reid whispered.

Jackson nodded and slapped his hat back on his head. “Best be off,” he said. He had no other excuse to stay. Besides, he figured, Jane could take over from here. 

But the woman had other plans. She followed Jackson to the front door, where she touched his arm, prompting him to stop. “Forgive me for prying,” she said. “But is there—it is only just that—” She twisted her hands together. “Something seems to be weighing heavily upon your mind.” 

Jackson adjusted his bag and swallowed. He didn’t reply, not with words. Instead, he exhaled hard through his nose and glanced downward. He pressed his lips together. 

She took the hint. “Can I help in any way?” she asked. 

Rolling saliva over his tongue and down his throat, he gave her question some thought. Finally, he said, “You’re familiar with Obsidian Estates?”

Jane clasped her hands in front of her. “I am.”

“Well, ownerships’s changed hands.” 

“Is that so?”

“It is. And I suspect the new owner would be interested in discussing ways to improve the business’s image. And purpose.” 

“Really?”

Jackson nodded. 

“Well, I must say, that is great news. Who is the new owner?”

Jackson shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “My wife.” 

He left Susan’s name and address with Jane, who stared at him with her mouth open, then left and made the long walk back to Reid’s house, wondering if he’d done the right thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the boxing match, Edmund wakes up in Jane's bed to a surprise...or two.

Sunlight. Apple-red. The back of his eyelids. His face, too-warm. A leap of sharp discomfort above his eye. Soft, fine bedcovers atop him in a bed that was not his own. With eyes still closed, his memory flashed reminders of the previous night. A bare fist hovered before his face. The fist turned into the blue lantern of his station house. The lantern into a woman’s hat. The hat into a man’s hand, which drew away a blood-soiled cloth. The cloth into rose-red lips that skimmed his cheek, his temple, his forehead. 

Jane. Jane, who had laid beside him and stroked his hair, the last memory he could recall from yesterday, apart from the drizzle of rain that had only just started to spatter with a quiet but constant rhythm on the windows. Rain he wished for now—or, at least, for the cover of rain clouds—rather than this harsh burst of sunshine that beat down onto the bruises and lacerations that still pulsed with a heat all their own.

Edmund turned his back on the sun and, in the cool relief of his own shadow, touched his nose to Jane’s pillow. The smell of her comforted him in the way he would have expected from the rain; it seeped into him, soothing him from the inside. Breath after breath of her scent seemed to ease the throbs of pain that remained in his face, to erase the tension in his muscles, and clear the mists of sleep from his mind. 

But when he opened his eyes, he blinked at an empty space. 

The smell of her was so present that he had expected to find her there. He pushed himself up to one elbow and peered about for her. The door was ajar, the curtains of all the windows opened wide. A carafe of water stood on the bedside table, more than half emptied. The bed—he pressed his hand to the mattress—was still body-warm. All of this suggested a recent exit. She had not, it seemed, left him to sleep alone, and, at the realization, his chest loosened around a knot whose initial formation had escaped his notice. 

He also relaxed around his awareness that, in his exhaustion and preoccupation with the events of the previous day, he had left the details of the room unexamined. Now, in Jane’s absence, he sat up and scanned the room—this, Jane’s bedroom. 

Still perched on his elbow, he tilted his head as he studied first the space beside the water carafe, spying a pen and notebook smaller than the size of his palm. A short curvy vase held a bundle of fresh flowers. 

Next, his eyes drifted to his left where a set of fine furniture was set against the center of the wall between two tall windows. An upholstered chair was stationed at an angle in front of an orderly vanity, whose oval mirror formed its centerpiece, large and spotless. No pieces of jewelry sparkled on the table’s surface, but were all stored, he presumed, in the small chests on either side of the mirror. He did see, however, an ivory-handled hairbrush and a silver dish of hairpins beside a metal rod that served to curl her hair. Adjacent to all this, a little square table supported a wash basin and a stack of folded linens. 

He thought to refresh his face with a splash of cool water, but he never made it out of bed before: “Oh! Edmund.” 

He turned his head to find Jane in the doorway, a tray in her hands. As she approached the bed, he stared at her, too stunned to stop himself. He had never before seen her this way: dressed in a robe of colorful silks, her feet bare, her hair down. Thick, loose curls framed her face, cascaded over her shoulders, and fell over her breasts. His hands twitched. So did his cock. Grasping the bedcovers, he tried to focus on the woman before him, instead of the one in his mind—the one that swept her hair behind her as he opened her robe and slid the smooth fabric off her shoulders and down her arms; the one that touched him as he exposed her breasts, her belly, her entire body, her robe a crumpled pool of color at her feet. 

Embarrassed by his own fantasies—and how quickly they had thrown him into a state of arousal—he retreated from Jane’s side of the bed and pressed his back against the headboard, fighting to keep his legs still. 

“You are awake, I see,” she said, her inflection so playful it seemed to scurry about the room. 

He chanced to look at her and discovered her expression matched her tone; she flashed him a broad smile, her eyes bright with a watery sparkle, on the edge of mischief. Shifting his pillow onto his lap to hide his erection, his ears burned with the heat of a hot kettle. He was half-afraid she had read his thoughts, but with his chin dipped towards his chest, he forced himself to answer. “You expected to find me asleep, then?”

“I had hoped to,” she said, carefully climbing onto the mattress and setting the tray down. “So that I might”—she quirked her eyebrow, but whether it was a conscious action, he did not know—”wake you myself.”

He suppressed a smile at the realization that he may not have been alone in entertaining his fantasies, and battled to keep the return of those fantasies at bay. He tried to direct all his concentration on keeping his breaths slow and even, but visions of her crept into the periphery of his mind—her hands on his hips and her lips around his cock, teasing him into wakefulness—which did not lessen his arousal. Hoping to divert his attention, and hers, he studied the tray between them, which bore toasted bread and a pot of jam, cooked sausages, a bowl of sliced fruit, and—“Three cups?” 

“Tea _ and _coffee, both for you,” she explained, her smile suddenly shy and self-conscious. “I did not know which you preferred with your breakfast.” 

A little rush of affection for her pulsed in his chest, not because of her uncertainty but because of her thoughtfulness in the face of it. With a grin, he took the tea by way of an answer. “I generally limit coffee to the station house, although not necessarily to the morning hours.” 

He relished his first sip of tea, eyes closed, attention focused on how it coated and soothed his sleep-dry throat. Flavors of black leaves, bergamot, and orange lingered in his mouth, even after the first swallow had sunk to his stomach. He hummed with satisfaction, which made Jane react with a little smirk into her own teacup, her lips half-hidden by the rim.

After some silent minutes, she set down her cup and took up a strawberry. Playing with its green leafy top, she said, “Edmund, I do not mean to belabor the subject, but I cannot help but think that you did not tell me the entire story. About Inspector Shine.” 

As soon as that repulsive name snaked into his ear, Edmund’s back stiffened. Shine, the last person--if he could be called such--Edmund wished to speak about, although he could not help but wonder what had become of Shine since the match. He considered drawing attention to his state of arousal, which now seemed a preferable subject, though only just. Instead, he stuffed his mouth with toast and chewed it until it lost all structure, becoming the tiniest particles of wet sand at the back of his throat.

Jane waited him out, using the silence to consume several bites of fruit. He should not have been surprised at her patience; surely, she encountered much more sophisticated stall tactics in the political arena. She waited to speak until he finally swallowed, taking for herself the last piece of toast—part of her strategy, perhaps. “If he has done all that you say, can you not arrest him?” she asked. “Or report him to your superiors? Can they not see to it that he is prosecuted? Or is there, as I suspect, more to it than that?” 

Frustration mounting—and erection flagging—Edmund gripped his tea cup with rigid fingers. “I cannot, no,” he said, forcing strained words out of mouth. The admission renewed his feelings of weakness, powerlessness. The same he had felt when Shine revealed that he had insulated himself, smug even behind the bars of Edmund’s cell. “Doing so would expose the police to scandal and public embarrassment.”

“How so?”

And so between bites and sips, Edmund recounted the full story of Shine’s betrayal. Linklater. Blush Pang and the opium trade. Merrick. The protection of criminals and corrupt businessmen. Albert Flight. After he fell silent, he stared at the sediment of tea leaves smeared across the bottom of his little cup. Hints of nausea churned in his stomach--and he did not care to see the breakfast he had eaten a second time, so he shut his eyes and tried to banish further thoughts of Shine and his doings. All the while, he kept quiet, his eyes fixed on the bottom of his cup until Jane took hold of his wrist and pulled the cup away. 

With a flashy, devilish smile, she cradled the cup and said, “I don’t suppose anyone has ever read your tea leaves.”

He let his shoulders drop, relieved to move on to another subject—any other, even one so ridiculous as this—and shook his head in response. Even if he had, for some reason, witnessed this particular act of clairvoyance, he would have denied it now, if only to remove the idea of Shine from their minds. He also saw it as an opportunity to tease her in a way she so often teased him; at the very least, he saw a way to avoid succumbing to another stunned spell of speechlessness. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

“Well,” she said. “Allow me.” 

He watched as she scooted close to him, her knee hardly an inch away—a fine vantage point from which to observe every stretch and twitch of her features as she made an elaborate, theatrical show of her leaf-study. He bit his bottom lip to stop the smile that threatened to spread from the corners of his mouth. But when her voice rose and fell with an ostentatious whistle, he could not help himself; his mouth stretched into a smile as he exhaled an airy laugh. 

“Ah!” She pointed into the cup. “There. I see a butterfly. Or perhaps a kite.” She rotated the cup in a full circle, then reversed the rotation and repeated her evaluation before she concluded, “No, a butterfly, which means you will have a life of pleasure and success.” 

“Really?” He kept his voice flat--in an effort to tease her--but his heart seemed to float inside him, weightless, like a little balloon. His nausea had already faded away. “That certainly describes every facet of my life so far.”

He knew his comment had not escaped her, for she rolled her eyes at him before resuming her analysis. “And this appears to be an anchor.” She tilted her head far to the side, eyes wide and nose scrunched—she resembled a bewildered owl. “Or possibly an arrow. What do you see?” she asked, presenting the leaves for his inspection. 

Without even the briefest glance into the cup, he said, “Now, you are well aware that I am an amateur.”

“I am.” 

“And I can only put forth an uneducated guess.” 

“Yes.”

“Well, it looks to me to be a collection of used tea leaves in random and various shapes and—”

“Oh!” she said, with a light slap to his shoulder, but not truly angry--not with so wide a grin. “Would it be so terrible to play along?” 

“Is that what you’re doing? Playing?”

“And if I was not?” 

Crossing her arms, she adopted an obstinate expression, every muscle in her face as still and hard as cast iron. Now he waited, holding her gaze in silence. He breathed slowly, audibly, flaunting his patience. And then—there. _ There _. A faint half-twitch of her lips. A movement that belied the serious tone of her question and made his chest lighten with a rush of confidence. “You are attempting to....provoke me, Miss Cobden,” he said, leaning close to her—his face so close he could hear the bubbly smacks of her saliva as she prepared to swallow it. Suddenly an evocative sound. 

And, at it, his cock jerked back to life. 

Jane refused to allow him the last word. “That would, I suppose, trouble you less than if I believed that this locomotive engine here told me that you would experience problems with trains.” 

“Problems with trains?” he echoed, falsely concerned. To show just how falsely, he swept her hair—so thick and soft—behind her back and lowered his lips to her shoulder for a gentle but lingering kiss.

“Mmm.” An absent-minded reply as he dropped another kiss, then another, closer to her neck. Lifting his head, he eased her robe off her shoulder, rewarded when she closed her eyes and raised her chin, affording him a full view of the line of her neck, the s-curve of her clavicle. “You cannot—”

He fit his lips around either side of the slender bone and dragged his tongue across the skin that covered it, interrupting her. 

“You cannot be too careful…” The teacup fell to the bed when he kissed the side of her neck. “...around trains.” 

Encouraged by her reaction, he tried to take care of two matters at once: Jane—kissing her, touching her—and their breakfast tray, an obstacle that would, sooner or later, impede his progress. Jane must have had the same idea, for she too started to scramble for the tray—their cups and knives and jam and plates. He knocked most of the coffee onto the tray as he shoved the little fruit bowl into the cluster of cups and, at the same time, tried to find Jane’s mouth. A sloppy kiss landed on her cheek. The tray rattled. Sausages rolled off their plate. 

With a soft laugh, Jane pushed him back. “Edmund, wait. Stop.” 

Jane cleared the tray and returned to him in the span of a couple short, frantic breaths. 

“Now...” she said and, with her hand flat to his chest, eased him onto his back. She knelt beside him, her feet tucked under her. With a light touch that almost tickled, she slid her hand up his chest and cupped his jaw. “Promise me, Edmund, you will take precautions.” 

“Precautions?”

Her thumb stroked his cheek, back and forth. “Around trains.” She spoke in earnest and for a moment he wondered if a part of her believed what she had interpreted in the leaves. But now, as she looked at him with more concern and tender passion than anyone had expressed for him in so many years, he could not muster the will to mock her. 

“Of course,” he murmured. 

Relief imbued her smile and her voice when she whispered, “Good.” And kissed him. Careful, slow. Her mouth tasted like the strawberries she had eaten, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss and taste her further. She split her attention--and deftly--as she matched the zeal of his glossal exploration and trailed her hand down his chest, over his stomach, and brushed his cock. As if of their own volition, his hips jerked up and pressed his shaft into her palm. He broke their kiss to let loose a quiet moan, which only served to propel her to quicker action. 

In a charged flurry of clothes and bedsheets, she stripped them both and climbed atop him, wrapped her hand around his cock, held him steady, and took him inside her. 

He already felt breathless, his head muddled, his body taut with lust and arousal, his heart full of love and admiration for her. He wanted to please her, to know what excited her, what made her shiver and squirm and throb with pleasure, but she rode him fast and hard, making it clear to him that she wished to control their coupling. 

Another kiss, ardent and heady. Her mouth open, tongue eager and brave. Both of her hands held his face, as if to keep him still. But then: a sharp sensation pierced his hazy pleasure. Teeth on his bottom lip, only a brush--a symptom of her enthusiasm--but one that caught his cut and made an involuntary yip fly from his mouth. 

“Oh! Oh, Edmund!” she cried, her voice full of alarm, her hands covering her mouth. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” 

He shook his head--to shake off the pain, to shake the entire moment away and rush onto the next. He hardly cared if she kissed him so hard she drew blood. But all he could spit out was: “No, no. I’m fine. It’s fine.” 

She frowned. “Really. I’m so sorry.” 

“I’m fine. Really.” He did not mean to mock her. Only to reassure. To put them back on the path toward mutual satisfaction and pleasure. But she did not move. She studied him, as if searching for a reason to distrust his words. So _ he _ moved. Slid his hands up her thighs. Over her hips. Held her waist. And pitched his hips up, pushing farther inside her. Deeper, slowly, until her eyes flickered closed. 

She bore down, met each of his strokes. They rocked that way, over and over, establishing a steady rhythm amid heavy breaths and kisses and half-spoken words. 

Her scent fluttered about him like some winged creature. She smelled of sunlit orange blossoms, undercut by a hint of rich spices and sleep-warm skin--and he pulled her down, hands splayed across her back, so he could nuzzle her neck. He filled his senses with her. Inhaled the unique smell of her. Kissed her, tasted her--the tiny beads of sweat, leftover oils, natural and botanical. Felt her. Felt her tense around his cock. He felt her plant a hand on his chest and push herself up. She kept her chin down, and her hair fell in front of her shoulders in messy waves but did not hide her face. 

And her blue, bright eyes met his as she whimpered, “Edmund—Oh. I—Edmund—”

“That’s it.” He stared at her. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her face.

He had been robbed of it the first time. She’d squirmed out from under him, turned around, and bent herself over her desk. Touched herself. Caused her own climax as he held her by the hips—skirt piled up onto her back—and fucked his way to his own release. Afterward, still inside her, he had kissed the nape of her neck and wished he had been able to see her face. 

Now—again—his hands were locked onto her hips, but this time he kept her upright, visible. Almost all of her—_God, he could see almost all of her—_as she rocked her hips. Fast. Uninterrupted. Pressure, all tingles and tightness, built inside him and—_oh, God. _“Oh, God.” 

His cock throbbed now. Strained. Ached. 

“Oh, God, Jane.” 

It may have been the sound of her name. Or the way he bucked under her. Desperate. Erratic. Rhythm lost to his need. Whatever the cause, Jane braced herself—her hands on his shoulders--and curled over him. Shuddered. Shouted—cries and breaths and moans. He stared at her. Utterly transfixed—if only for a few seconds--before he tumbled over the threshold of his own climax, still able to feel the quick pulse-pulse-pulse of her--so slippery and smooth and hot--around his cock. He allowed his eyes to close and savored the sensations that flooded him--the rush of warmth in his chest, Jane’s hands on him, the sublime release of tension that sent vibrations into his limbs and deep moans out of his throat. 

When his pleasure faded, he opened his eyes and found Jane’s. She seemed to hover above him, watching him with rapt but soft attention. A radiant flush had bloomed across her chest and traveled up her neck and into her cheeks. He snapped his mouth shut and held himself still, in part to admire her, but more to prevent himself from spouting what he was certain would be a series of nonsensical, disconnected words. Clichéd compliments and trite attempts to express his affection for her. Articulating emotion with the proper language required preparation, and she deserved more than a stream of tommyrot. So he remained silent, unsure of what to say. 

She soon relieved him of his discomfort--he wondered if she sensed it--and said, “I presume you read the morning papers?” 

Before he formed an answer, she seemed to assume it and heaved herself up and out of bed. He rolled about until he had himself covered with bedsheets from the waist down, in time for her return to bed. 

“You don’t mind sharing, I hope,” she said, tossing a stack of London papers onto his lap before joining him under the bedcovers, sitting beside him. 

As she unfolded a copy of_The Daily Telegraph, _ Edmund propped his chin on her shoulder and browsed the headlines. _ The London Water Question_. _ The Opening of Chungking to British Trade. _ While Jane was focused on London’s water supply, he stretched his legs, flexing both feet to elongate his calves. His ankle gave an abrupt and twiggy _ crack _, and he did not realize he had hummed aloud until Jane turned her head and smiled at him. 

“Pleased, are we?” 

He grinned. “Unabashedly.” 

His self-satisfaction, however, fizzled to its death when he spotted a headline near Jane’s hand: _ Wealthy Landowner Murdered in Whitechapel Music Hall. _ While it was a regular occurrence for Whitechapel crimes to land in the London papers, it bode poorly for him when they achieved front-page status. That, combined with the swiftly-recalled memory of a landowner with whom he had recent dealings, Mr. Silas Duggan, Edmund felt his languid, carefree present dissolve into his past. 

Reaching for the paper, he mumbled a hasty, “May I…?” But did not wait for Jane’s answer, taking the paper from her to squint at the small type. He read with speed. 

_ ...the landowner, Mr. Silas Duggan, was found dead in Blewett’s Theatre of Varieties… _

_ ...had been attacked during a performance… _

_ ...the in-house surgeon of the Metropolitan Police’s H Division stated that... _

Edmund stared at those words, hot anger flaring in his chest. Clenching his jaw, he threw down the paper and flopped with jerky movements towards the edge of the mattress, his eyes already searching for his clothes. 

“Edmund?” Jane asked, propelling herself out of bed. “What’s the matter?”

He checked chairs, stools, even her vanity, but was unable to locate his clothes. Finally, still in the midst of searching, he said, “I need my clothes.” 

“What did you see in the paper?”

He stopped and turned toward her. “That I have employed an idiot in my Dead Room, who feels it is somehow appropriate to speak to the press about murders in _ my _jurisdiction,” he said, pointing at himself. 

“Captain Jackson?”

“The same.” With one last fruitless glance about the room, he swept his hands through the air and asked, “Jane, _ where _ are my clothes?” 

“Well, I should say if you wished to draw press attention away from this murder, you should consider leaving your clothes behind.” 

He had no patience for jokes at his expense and stared at her with as much severity as he could muster. “Jane.”

“You would cause quite the stir.” 

“_Jane. _” 

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she mumbled, throwing open her wardrobe and retrieving his clothes. When she tossed them at him, he snatched them out of the air. 

Jane moved to the foot of the bed, watching as he stepped into his trousers. “Try not to be too hard on him, Edmund.” 

“Ah, yes,” he said, donning his shirt. “He is your _ friend _ now.” 

“He is yours as well.” 

“Yes, well,” he said. “Perhaps not after today.” 

When he was fully clothed, he took his leave of Jane with promises to return later, heading for his station house and the ratty conscience of Captain Jackson.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund storms the Dead Room to confront Jackson about communicating with the press. Drake has a request.

When he arrived at the station house, Edmund stomped his way to the Dead Room and threw open its door. As soon as his eyes found Jackson—back turned at the sink—he hurled his voice across the room. “Tell me, Jackson, when did I appoint you spokesperson for this division?” 

“Aah,” Jackson drawled over the sounds of watery trickles and sloshes. “Mornin’, Reid.” 

To illustrate exactly the sort of _ mornin’ _ he perceived it to be, Edmund slammed the door. Jackson did not so much as pause—he did not even do him the courtesy of a _ glance_—and, fueled by Jackson’s indifference, Edmund stalked across the room with hard, noisy heel-strikes and arrived beside Jackson at the sink. He stared at Jackson’s profile. He steadied himself with an iron-grip on the edge of the basin. He imbued his voice with all the tender softness of splintered metal, only audible because Jackson had turned off the faucet. “Do not waste my time with pleasantries, Captain.” 

“See, that’s the problem with society these days.” Jackson whipped the towel off his shoulder with fluid ease and rubbed a scalpel dry. “Seein’ pleasantries as a waste. A man can wish another well without it being dismissed as a waste.”

With each lazy word, Edmund’s muscles tensed until he felt like a coiled snake, poised to strike. He sucked in his cheek and focused hard on Jackson’s face as the man set the scalpel on a tray. 

Jackson dried his hands, tossed his towel away, and finally—_finally _ , the insufferable _ ratbag—_turned to meet him face to face. “Ah, healin’ up already, I see,” he said, stepping closer to examine the cut at his eyebrow. “No excessive inflammation. No infection. And there, see,”—he pointed at the cut—“there’s some nice—”

Edmund slapped Jackson’s hand away. Good, fine, his skin would heal. About _ that, _he was not concerned. “You spoke to the press.” 

Jackson took up another dirty knife and, with a quick flick of his wrist, turned on the hot water. 

Edmund turned it off just as quickly. He kept his hand on the handle to block Jackson's access. Before Jackson could invent another means of avoidance, Edmund said, “You spoke to the press about a case.” 

In silence and with slow movements, Jackson replaced the knife in the sink. Edmund could see Jackson swallow—his pursed lips, the bob in his throat. “Reid, I just—”

He stepped closer. Chin raised. Shoulders squared. Back stretched and tall. “And you did so without my permission.” 

“Look, burstin’ in on you and Jane wasn’t exactly how I wanted to start my day. Besides, you needed the...” Jackson sniffed the air like a hound on a new scent. With a tilt of his head, he bared his teeth in a smile that made Edmund lean backwards. Edmund prickled with cold paranoia as Jackson followed, led by his nose, for another sniff. “Well, well,” he said, so close that Edmund could count the hairs of his moustache. “Ain’t that a fine fragrance? What is that? Orange blossom?”

Jackson’s accuracy sparked a hot explosion in Edmund’s chest. He felt invaded—as if the morning he had shared with Jane was no longer private—and, freeing himself from his efforts to maintain his self-control, he seized Jackson by the waistcoat and let his spittle fly. “Now you listen to me. You _ listen _ to me.” His fists and forearms strained, but he grasped the fabric harder and shook Jackson to attention. “You will _ never _ again speak to the press. You will stay here, in this room, and you will speak to _ no one _but myself, my men here, and the dead. Am I clear?” 

For a moment, it crossed Edmund’s mind that Jackson would resist. Jackson stared at him, frozen, his jaw set and eyebrows low. He reminded him of a cornered suspect, the sort that would spit in his face and try to run. He opened his mouth to repeat himself, but Jackson blinked and issued a tense, quick nod. 

With a little shove, Edmund released him. 

Jackson kept a heavy silence as he pulled at his clothes until they returned to their natural positions. He brushed back his hair, too—all the while shooting him half-second glances and circling a covered body on the table. A hefty body. A man, most certainly. The very man, Edmund surmised further, about whom Jackson had spoken so freely to _ The Telegraph’ _s reporter. He planted himself at the foot of the slab and waited for confirmation. 

Jackson made his way to the head. “I imagine you already worked out the identity of our friend, here,” he said.

Edmund waved him on. 

“Well, ain’t no mystery about it,” Jackson said, revealing Duggan’s body with a flourish of the sheet. 

“Stabbed to death. Yes, I read your statement.” That earned him a chilly look. He slipped his hands in his pockets and cocked his eyebrow. “I wonder, perhaps, if you withheld any details that could possibly illuminate the motivations of his killer or, better yet, identity.” 

“Killers. There were two.” 

“Two?” His resentment yielded to his curiosity, and he leaned down to study the body. He could not, however, see any clues that would lead to Jackson’s conclusion. “You know this because there are...what? Unique patterns to the wounds?” 

Jackson shook his head. 

“Then what?” 

Jackson wet his lips, bowed his head, then lifted it a moment later, only to look to the far wall. 

Realization dawned on Edmund, but he hoped, despite his trust in his own intuition, that he was mistaken. “You were _ there_,” he said, his voice low. “The _ two _of you—you and Susan—were there, were you not? That is how you relayed such a detailed account so soon after his death.”

His hope dwindled when Jackson took a step backwards. Jackson had killed before. He had seen it. But there had been—in his distress, he searched for the word—there had always been justification. Lawful justification. He floundered to find such justification now as a tide of doubt rose in his mind. 

“No one wanted this man dead more than yourself, Captain.” 

Jackson’s face hardened. “We didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying.” 

“But you _ were _there.” 

A nod. 

“Why?”

Jackson took several seconds to find and light a cigarette. “Can’t a man take in some entertainment?”

“Certainly. But I know no man who would do so in the company of his wife’s landlord who, if rumors are true, has extorted repayment of owed rents not from your wife’s purse, but from her—” 

Jackson pointed at him. “Now, you just shut your—”

“It is true then?”

Jackson’s hard-set jaw provided confirmation. 

“And so you relieved Susan of her debt by disposing of its source.”

“No!” Jackson exhaled a mouthful of smoke as he shouted. “No! Jesus, Reid, I _ said _ I didn’t kill him. _ We _didn’t kill him.” 

Even with such an earnest outburst, Jackson failed to set Edmund’s mind at ease. And he knew why: Jackson had offered only flat denials. He needed an alternative explanation, at the very least. A story to corroborate the reality that lay before them. 

Edmund bent forward and curled his hands around the corners of the slab. With locked elbows, he leaned hard on his palms and fixed his eyes on Jackson’s face. “And so I ask again: you were there...for why?” 

Jackson smoked in silence for a few minutes. Edmund waited. Watched. He wanted to rush Jackson, pressure him to respond; he feared that each minute that passed allowed Jackson the opportunity to weave a false story colored with familiar shades of the truth. 

But Jackson shook his head, dropped his shoulders, and spoke with quiet resignation when he answered in a plume of blue smoke. “I knew he was takin’ her there. To see Rose perform.” A brief silence that ended with a thin _ pop _of Jackson’s lips as they parted from his cigarette. “And I wanted to...look after her. I’ve been tryin’ like hell to win her back, Reid, but…” 

As another cloud of smoke engulfed Jackson’s face, Edmund parsed the elements of Jackson’s response. The reason for his presence at Blewitt’s was plausible, but Edmund only believed it because of the naked desperation that filled Jackson’s voice. The speed of his words. Even now, the way he dipped his head and rubbed the back of his neck. Sympathy pulled at Edmund’s insides. He knew the pain of Jackson’s loss; he had felt the desperation that had accompanied every attempt to reconcile with his own wife. “But you were…” he said. “Unsuccessful.” 

Jackson answered with his eyebrows—a quick leap toward his hairline. 

“But you saw the killers? Duggan’s killers.” 

“Yeah. Two men. Didn’t catch their names. From the looks of it, seems Duggan, uh, came to possess a piece of stolen property—a rock, I think.” 

“A rock? You could not tell its kind?”

“I was a little distracted by the murder.” 

Edmund scowled at Jackson, who stamped out his cigarette stub on the floor. Frustration gathered in the narrow spaces between his ribs. The rock would have offered a clue, he was certain, as to the men’s identities—or perhaps their trade. But simply “a rock,” even a valuable one, presented too many possibilities, and he suspected it would be difficult, if not impossible, to track Duggan’s killers. It was likely they had already fled the country—or at least hidden themselves beyond his reach. 

He scratched at his jaw, rounding the slab. “Well,” he said, coming to stand in front of Jackson. “It does not appear that you...committed any crimes. For once.” Jackson’s mouth did not so much as twitch with a smile and, to hide his disappointment, Edmund turned and started towards the door. “Your proximity to the incident, however, may raise suspicions from others and I must insist that you provide a statement for the record.” 

“You think—what, people will think _ I’m _a suspect?” 

“You have a dubious history.” He grasped his lapels. “And we cannot be seen to be negligent in our investigations.” 

“There’s nothin’ to investigate! The men who murdered Duggan are long gone!” 

Edmund nodded. “I understand that, Captain, but we must, to the world, show that we have exhausted all other possibilities.” 

“I’m not a God damn suspect!” 

Edmund felt the last threads of his patience fray and slip away. “For fuck’s sake, Jackson, I’m not about to throw you in a cell! All I ask from you is a brief statement of what you saw, so that you and I will be exculpated in the eyes of those who would cast their scrutiny upon this case.” 

“Who? Abberline? The Commissioner?”

“Them, yes,” he said. “The press. Others, I’m sure.” 

To this, Jackson had no answer. 

And with a few tongue-clicks and forceful huffs, Jackson eventually joined him. “Let’s go, then,” he said, gesturing at the door. 

Once they reached Artherton at the duty desk, Edmund tried to cheer Jackson with a convivial slap to the shoulder. As much as he wanted to enhance the action with words of support, he could think of none that would not—to Jackson—sound hollow or cause awkward discomfort. Sincerity did not often rest easy with Jackson. So he issued instructions to Artherton and nodded to Jackson before climbing the stairs to find Bennet in his office. 

To Edmund’s relief, Bennet had reclaimed his place in the division one day previous, before the championship match. He feared Bennet stood now in his office, his face more weary than usual, because he wished to forfeit the badge and warrant card a second time. 

But Bennet dispelled his concern almost immediately. “I came to ask, Inspector, if…” he said, spinning a folded piece of paper in his hands. “That is, this business with Shine now finished and the division stable, more or less, and...not wishing to disappear again, I thought I might…”

With sudden clarity, Edmund understood. “You thought you would _ ask _to disappear instead,” he said, taking his seat behind his desk. 

Bennet nodded. “For a time, sir.” 

“How long a time?”

“I have over three weeks’ leave owed to me. Just over.” 

Propping his elbow on the desk, Edmund cradled his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Three weeks. It was not a struggle to imagine the difficulties he would encounter within Bennet’s three week absence—he had already experienced them—but he did not have the strength for a battle with Drake so soon after he’d fought one with Jackson. Instead he asked, “You’ve prepared the paperwork?”

Bennet laid it on the desk in front of him, and Edmund took up his pen. 

“Bennet Drake on holiday,” he remarked, signing his name to the form. “I never thought I’d see the day.” 

“We both know it’ll be no holiday.” 

Edmund suspected as much, but he nevertheless felt a heavy sadness settle in his chest for Bennet, who deserved a holiday more than most and, apart from himself, seemed least likely ever to take one. He stood, handing the paper back to Bennet, and asked, “Where will you go?”

“Manchester. Got a cousin round there. He offered to put me up, long as I keep to myself.”

Edmund nodded. “Ah.” 

For a few moments, they stood in silence and did not look at each other. 

Since Bella’s death, most pleasant airs had disappeared from Bennet’s demeanor. Bennet had never exactly paraded about with open warmth and amiability, but he had always treated Edmund with deference and, at times, with the concern and kindness that befitted a friend. But even prior to his disappearance, Bennet had sometimes comported himself with a sour and critical mien, which Edmund had begun to notice after Bennet had seen him with Miss Goren at her orphanage. The same silent judgment reappeared when Edmund had increased the number of nights he slept in his office, staying away from his wife. The day Emily had thrown herself into the street outside the station house, Edmund had not even dared to meet Bennet’s eyes, dreading the condemnation he would find there. And each time he met with Jane, whether for personal or professional reasons, he sensed the return of Bennet’s quiet disapproval. 

Before Bella’s death, Edmund attributed Bennet’s behavior to his loyalty to his duties. But now, the resentment that oozed from Bennet’s person seemed to result from the unfairness inherent in Bella’s death combined with the fact that Emily still lived. Radically changed. Irreversibly mad. But still alive. And still his wife. And with every kiss Edmund shared with Jane, every intimate act they committed, he betrayed his living wife.

Finally, Bennet mumbled, “I’ll be off now, sir. Thank you.” 

Edmund nodded as Bennet hastened from his office. He managed to close the door before he fell back into his chair, choking on the shame that clawed its way up his throat. He let his head drop into his hands, his forehead to his palms, and tried to recall the swells of love and affection--the amusement and delight--he felt at Jane’s laughter, her wit, her fearlessness, her zeal for life. But thoughts and memories of Jane were eradicated by the reprimands of his superiors for his lapse of moral judgment. For his irresponsibility. For his poor example. 

Guilt rushed and burned inside his torso like molten iron. The rebukes of his superiors were replaced by his own. He _ was _ selfish. He _ was _ irresponsible. He betrayed Emily, over and over. He put _ Jane _at risk. Daily. Jeopardized her career. Her reputation. Her safety. 

His mind leaped to Mathilda. Even though he clung to the hope that she lived, somewhere out there, her nearness to his work had hurt her. It had caused their separation. She _ could have _ died. She had not. He _ had _ to believe that she had not. But she could have, all because of what his job had led him to do. The choices his job had forced him to make. 

He could not, in all good conscience, expose Jane to all the risks that came with his work. 

He could not expose Jane to all the risks that came with _ him. _

And, by the time the sun set that day, Edmund beat away the temptation to return to Jane and instead, with a thorny rope around his heart, walked alone to his home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund struggles with his past, which continues to invade his present.

For the first time in three days, Edmund took his supper at his home instead of his office. With Jackson absent—his whereabouts unknown—he carried one plate of food, all of it uncooked, to the table, where he had already spread out the evening edition of _ The Star_. As he munched on a fist-sized piece of bread and cured seasoned meats, he browsed the articles, each in turn, in part to make himself current with the goings-on in the East and in another part to ensure that Jackson had done as he’d promised and stayed clear of the press. 

To his satisfaction, he did not see Jackson quoted anywhere, despite the rather prominent presence of his wife in the middle spread under the headline: ‘Obsidian Estates to Reform Swathes of the East.’ 

Edmund pushed his cleared plate away and slid the paper closer. 

_ The new owner of Obsidian Estates, Miss Susan Hart, announced this afternoon that the company plans to rebuild portions of Whitechapel and surrounding boroughs. _

The article neglected to mention the recency of this ownership change and under what circumstances it occurred. That surprised him; it seemed exactly like the kind of detail that would cause Best to salivate—a possible scandalous, suspicious circumstances, all ripe for wild speculation. 

But no matter. _ He _had questioned Susan and gotten her full account, over Jackson’s objections. But not only did her version square with Jackson’s, but subsequent investigation yielded documentation that verified it. The deeds to several of Duggan’s former properties now listed Susan as the rightful purchaser and sole owner. She had, apparently, bought the properties outright, in cash, with what she claimed was a “parting gift from Jackson’s brother.” 

He had made a mental note to see if Jackson had any knowledge of this “gift.” 

Now, he read on. 

_ “With the help of local government, Obsidian Estates will replace rotting tenements in dangerous neighborhoods with safe, sanitary dwellings. It will also demolish a small block of vacant storefronts to make room for a medical clinic, which will serve residents regardless of their ability to pay.” _

“Lofty goals, Miss Hart,” Edmund mumbled, skipping to the next paragraph. 

_ Miss Hart was joined by Councilwoman Jane Cobden— _

Edmund felt as if all his internal functions halted with a lurch. He pressed his hands flat to the table and leaned away from the paper. A little ache exploded inside his chest like a firecracker. He hadn’t seen Jane for three full days. He had questioned his decision to keep his distance whenever he had heard footsteps headed towards his office, whenever an officer informed him of a visitor downstairs—each time, he had hoped to find Jane. But he repeated to himself now what he had told himself then: _ it is for her safety, her well-being and happiness, that I must stay away. It is for her. _And with that mantra reawakened in his brain, he returned his attention to the paper. 

_ —joined by Councilwoman Jane Cobden, who stated, “Miss Hart has the unanimous support of the Council. I look forward to working with Miss Hart to revitalize the East and improve the quality of life for all its citizens.” _

He squirmed with discomfort. Revitalization was a noble aim, certainly. But Jane had chosen a questionable partner. “Tread carefully,” he murmured. “Tread—”

Edmund’s head jerked up as he heard a sharp and fast knock at the door. 

One of his constables, perhaps. Jackson? Unlikely. The man rarely moved with such rapidity, unless a threat followed him. That thought took hold of him as he made his way to the door, his head swarming with images of an owner of a pub—or, more likely, gambling ring—chasing after Jackson to wring him of whatever valuables happened to be on his person. 

Edmund cracked open the door, but before he could lay eyes on his caller, he was shoved aside, sandwiched between the door and the wall, by whomever blustered into his house with all the force of a bison. He found his feet and composure quickly, but not before the bison shouted at him from deep in his foyer. 

“Three days, Edmund! I waited for three days!” 

He slammed the door shut and blinked at Jane, who stared at him, her eyes and head fixed, as she paced back and forth across the narrow space. He had been more prepared to deal with Jackson, with or without a pursuer, and, with a quick shake of his head, tried to reorient himself. 

“I am well aware of how your work can capture your attention,” she spat. “But I thought I was clear the _ last _ time. I cannot sit alone in protracted _ wait _for you!” 

He whipped his head to the side, his jaw set and tense. A dense cloud of fury filled him and precipitated bitter words. “So you come to my _ home_?! Uninvited and unannounced?” 

“Since you refuse to come to mine, yes! Or should I have waited another _five weeks _for you to show your face? When might be best for you?” 

He had started, over the past days, to compose a speech of sorts to explain his decision to keep his distance from her.

“A month, Edmund? Two?”

At the moment, he could not recall any of the words he had outlined and instead blurted, “Never, Jane! Never again would be best, I think.” 

For a second, she stood completely immobile. Edmund studied a tiny divot in the wall. 

When she finally spoke, the pitch of her voice dropped. “What?” Her words oozed from her mouth like thick, viscous blood from an open wound. “What do you…?”

He met her eyes, easy to find since she had stopped at one side of the hall. She stared at him, bent forward, her shoulders hunched, her arm thrown across her stomach, as if he had just punched her. Guilt sprung up inside him like weeds. 

“Edmund? What do you mean?”

“You should not be here, Jane,” he said, quieter now. 

“Why not?"

“Because.” He fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch. “You should not be with me.” 

She stepped forward but stopped short of him. “I don’t understand. _ With _ you? Do you mean _ in your presence _ or—”

He silenced her with a raised hand. He needed a moment to quell the hot pain that burned in his chest before he replied with a cool, flat tone. “It would be best if you were not involved with me. If you and I were not...” 

In the seconds that followed, Jane underwent several false starts. She croaked a few half-words. She smoothed the pristine and unwrinkled corset of her dress. She passed her wide, wounded eyes over his face, down his body, across the floor, to her own feet. Finally, she raised her chin, folded her hands in front of her, and said with fortitude in her voice, “Edmund. You come to me and tell me that you have flouted orders from your superiors to end our relationship. Then, less than a week later, you say that you and I should not be together. I must assume that either your superiors have renewed their threats or you suffer from a condition of the mind that causes you to—”

With a frown, he rolled his eyes. “They’ve said nothing.” 

“Then you must be mad, Edmund,” she snapped. “And I would advise you to consult a doctor as soon as you are able.” 

“I am not _ mad_!” He scrubbed at his face. “I am—I only want to—” With a huff, he dropped his hands. He felt trapped there, between Jane and the door, and for no other reason he rushed forward and rounded Jane to occupy the doorway to the parlour. 

“Only want to...?” she prompted.

With one hand, he held onto the doorframe. He bit the inside of his cheek with his canine teeth, then soothed it with his tongue. All the while, he searched for the words he wanted. Gentle but truthful words. 

“You only want to _ what_, Edmund?” 

“To, to…” 

“Just _ say _it, Edmund!” 

“To protect you,” he blurted out, stabbing at the space between them. “To keep you safe.”

“Protect me?”

He would not allow himself to feel foolish in the face of her incredulity—the mockery in her tone. He squared his shoulders and pulled at the bottom hem of his waistcoat. “Yes.” 

“From _ what_? What on earth made you think I needed—” 

“From my _ work__! _ From _ me. _” He spit his words now with disgust, but whether it was for her, himself, or the implication in his words, he could not determine. Perhaps his frustration was rooted in all three. He did not have the time or energy to enquire further, not when Jane’s eyes suddenly twinkled with a sheen of amusement. A smile teased her lips, making him simmer with heightened irritation. 

“Oh, Edmund.” Her inflection resembled one she would use to comfort a child. “I promise, darling, you don’t need to worry about—”

“No. No, I do, Jane. I do,” he insisted, backpedaling farther into the room as she moved toward him. He held his hands up, as if to keep her away. “You _ said _ that you understand the requirements of my work, but you do _ not_! You cannot.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Edmund.”

“It does. They do.” 

“Edmund…”

“Stop, Jane. And hear me.” 

She froze, sobered by the hardness of his tone. He loathed to speak so harshly to her and, when he addressed her again, he did so with a soft, low voice. “Jane. You must understand. There are times I must be brutal. And callous. And vicious.” 

She nodded, but he did not yet believe that she fully understood. “And that is only part of it. It is perilous work, not only for myself, but for—” Mathilda filled his mind and he tried to clear it, squeezing his eyes closed. He shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets as he tried to gather himself. 

He flinched at Jane’s touch—her hand on the side of his neck, his jaw, his cheek. His eyes flew open to find her gazing at him with a soft, sympathetic expression. She brushed his cheekbone, back and forth, with her thumb. He could not meet her eyes for long, so he looked at her lips when she whispered, “Your daughter.” 

There were times when the intensity of his sorrow over Mathilda’s disappearance matched the pain of the first few months without her. He had told Jane of Mathilda, the circumstances of the incident that had taken her from him, and that he maintained hope of her return. But he had recounted all of it as mechanically as possible, shielding himself from his own emotions. But now, those emotions—his distress, his regret, his deep longing to look upon the fair, freckled face of his girl—they cracked open his chest like a fault in the earth and beat at the core of his heart. 

And, exhausted by the effort it took to quiet his memory and communicate with Jane, he allowed himself to yield to his desire for comfort and let Jane support his head. When she wrapped her arms around him, he did not resist, but relaxed his neck and back and drooped down until his forehead rested on her shoulder. His hands stayed in his pockets; he still told himself that he and Jane needed to part, and he knew that if he touched her, his resolve would crumble. If he kissed her, it would disappear.

“She...She was...” He whispered into Jane’s shoulder, trying to drive away the memory of Mathilda’s small hand, stretched out for him. Her fire-orange curls—the last he saw of her—as she tumbled over the side of the ship. “It was my fault.” 

Hugging him closer, she replied, “No, Edmund—”

“I had to work. And I took her with me.”

“I know. I know.” 

“If I hadn’t, or if I—if my work did not—”

“It was an accident.” She kissed the side of his head. “You could not have known. And you—“ Her voice broke; the sound made him turn his head and touch the tip of his nose to her neck. “You would have saved her if you...It wasn’t your fault.” 

He could not remember the moment his hands had left his pockets and pressed themselves flat to the middle of her back. Dazed, he lifted his head from her shoulder to peer down at her. He became aware of the texture of her dress, the warmth of her body through the fabrics that covered her, and, for the first time since she barreled through the door, Jane herself. Some of her hair had escaped its pins to frame her face. She wore a dress he had never seen before. But she wore the same scent. Jagged pain still tore through his chest, but Jane touched him, held him; her hands flowed over him like clean, warm bathwater and soothed the ache—and began to wash him of his intentions to drive her away. 

“If I am to keep myself safe,” she said, “it seems clear to me that I should not stay away from _ you_, Edmund, but from boats.” 

With a faint smile, she kissed him, and he let her. 

When she broke away, she stayed close to him. And it was, he admitted to himself, where he wanted her. “I…” he started, tempted to tell her how he felt, but he hesitated. She had still not convinced him that she understood the risks that accompanied him, and he had to be certain—he _ had _to be certain—that she understood. He would not have her eyes opened later to the true ugliness of his daily life. He would not have her turn her eyes upon him in shock and disgust. He would not have her leave him because he had failed to ground her expectations in reality. 

“Terror surrounds me, Jane,” he said, holding her gaze—holding her. “Violence follows me. I need you to know this.”

Finally, he saw evidence of deliberation. She dropped her eyes and eased out of the circle of his arms. Her face creased with the lines of serious thought—between her eyebrows, on her chin, around her mouth. 

Even before she looked back at him, she said, “I understand.”

He saw the honesty of her conviction when she raised her eyes to him. He heard it in her voice when she repeated herself. “I understand, Edmund.”

Tension drained from his neck and shoulders as he released a long, slow breath. He almost sank to the floor with relief, but he stayed on his feet. As if the room were new to him, he glanced about for the nearest place to sit. 

Jane seemed to read him; she took him by the hand and walked him to the sofa. “But, Edmund, do you not understand that you also protect against these terrors? This violence?” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. 

“You are a natural and skilled—and brave—protector. I know your life may contain many risks and hazards, and you may need to…” She paused to scan the floor, as if the words she wished to say were scattered there. “...act in cruel and disdainful ways, but it is in the service, I hope, of eliminating those hazards.” 

He nodded. “Yes.” 

“And these—what did you call them—these, yes, brutal and vicious behaviors, do you enjoy them?” 

“No.” 

“Do you take any pleasure from them?”

“Of course not.” 

“I did not think so,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. “My work is not dissimilar. I must often resort to underhanded and deceitful tactics to achieve even the smallest of victories.” 

He shook his head, unhappy with the comparison. “Yes, but you carry out manipulation and political maneuvers, not—”

“It is not physical violence, I know,” she finished for him. “But I understand what it is to commit base and shameful acts to protect and improve the lives of others. And I know these acts, on the surface, do not reflect my true character.” 

For a moment, he wondered what shameful acts she had committed. Had she accepted bribes? Stolen funds for her personal use? Had she blackmailed an opponent? 

Her tender, affectionate touch returned him to the present. She stroked the hair at the base of his head and added, “I know you wish for me to remain safe, Edmund. I wish the same for you. And rather than leave one another to the mercy of the world, we must…” 

She leaned so close to him that he felt her breath on his lips as she spoke. “...look after each other.” 

When she tilted her head, he mirrored her. “Protect each other.” 

He let his eyes close as her lips brushed his and felt the shape of each of her words. “Make each other laugh. Bring each other joy. Comfort each other.” 

His hands wandered, one to her knee, the other to the small of her back. Otherwise, he tried to keep still, taut with impatience and anticipation. He nearly broke. Nearly crossed the sliver of space between them and kissed her, but she leaned back to meet his eyes and dropped her voice as she whispered, “Pleasure each other.” 

Then she kissed his open mouth, wetting his lips, darting between them with an urgent, frantic tongue. Excitement and desire swirled inside him—all his reservations forgotten—and he shifted to find a better angle. 

They were both nearly breathless, and the sudden racket at the front door stole the rest of their air. 

Jane shrieked and Edmund started; it sounded as if his entire door had crashed apart. 

“Stay there,” he said to Jane. 

He bolted for the door and, as soon as he stepped into the hallway, he encountered a hard gust of wind that blew through the still-open door and, in a heap on the floor, the source of the noise, which addressed him with a toothy smile. 

“Reid! By God, Reid, whad-ur-you doin’ here?” 

Jackson tried to stumble to his feet, but he abandoned the attempt and settled back down on the floor, his back to the wall. 

“It is my house, Jackson.” Edmund smelled the whiskey a yard away. He had half a mind to leave Jackson there in the foyer; he did not wish to play nursemaid to the man, but he suspected he would not be able to escape it, one way or another. 

“Wondered if that was you, uh…” Jackson paused to expel a burp and lolled his head toward the open door. “Out there, watchin’.” He barked a short laugh. “Could you ‘magine? Watchin’ your own house?”

Edmund barely followed Jackson’s rant, but when he peered outside, he saw a man silhouetted before a wall plastered with advertisements and notices. The man hid his face with the low brim of his hat, but did not seem to care to hide his presence; he smoked a pipe, and Edmund could see—then smell—the little clouds of smoke that seemed to snake out from beneath the man’s hat. He noted hints of vanilla and cherry, a rich aromatic blend. 

He was about to press Jackson for more information about the man, but Jane appeared beside him. “Oh! Oh, Jackson,” she said, half-amused, half-sympathetic. 

“Save your pity,” Edmund muttered. 

“Jane! My sweet, dear friend!” Jackson tried harder this time to find his feet. “I’ll get there. Inna minute. Hang on.” He flattened his whole torso, head, and arms to the wall and started to straighten his legs, pushing himself up the wall, inch by wobbly inch. 

While Jackson unfolded, Jane turned to Edmund with a grin. “This is a common occurrence, I take it?” 

“Oh, yes. I’d say at least—” 

Jackson interrupted him with a sharp clap. “Ah! I know! That’s your bodyguard, in-it?” He pointed at Jane, then at his own temple, then back at Jane. “Smart. Can’t be too careful.” 

She looked from Jackson to Edmund, her face crinkled with confusion. “What is he—”

Edmund shook his head. “Haven’t a clue.” It was an easy lie. He did not wish to alarm her and, so far, the man had not moved but to refill his pipe. “Here,” he said, slamming the door shut before looping an arm around Jackson’s back. “Help me with him?” 

“Ooh, hoo-hoo! An escort!” Jackson cooed as Jane supported his other side. 

Slowly, they shuffled Jackson into the parlour and laid him on the sofa. Jane made him comfortable while Edmund fetched a pail. When Jackson hummed to himself and nestled into the cushions, she flashed Edmund a full smile, one he couldn’t help but copy. He felt a stab of guilt when a memory of Emily surfaced in his mind. As young parents, they had exchanged similar smiles next to Mathilda’s bed. Their girl had been four, had discovered and eaten half a cake in the kitchen and had dissolved into the wails and whines that came with a painful stomach ache. He had carried Mathilda to bed, and he and Emily had sat with her, all three of them sipping the ginger tea that Emily had brewed until Mathilda fell asleep.

Before Jane could notice his withering smile, he plucked a blanket from his armchair and spread it over their mutual friend, who grunted what Edmund imagined was his thanks. 

He was relieved when Jane made to leave. Pictures of Emily still dotted the house. He wanted to tidy and clean, restock the pantry and firewood, purchase new tea and candles—revive the cozy and warm atmosphere that had existed when the place was still a happy home. 

Before she left, Jane invited him to dinner the next day—and to stay the weekend. “Just try not to get into a fight beforehand,” she teased. “And no changing your mind.” 

He answered with a nod and a kiss, then watched her leave, relieved when the pipe man did not follow her. Several minutes later, the man finished his pipe and walked in the opposite direction. Satisfied that Jane was safe—from this man, at the very least—Edmund returned to Jackson in the parlour. 

He hoped to find Jackson asleep, but instead he discovered Jackson engaged in a clumsy but animated battle with his waistcoat buttons.

“God damn pieces of...too small...how on earth’s a man supposed to fuckin’...” Jackson must have sensed his presence because he stopped suddenly and peered up at him. “Oh, good. You’re still here.” Edmund’s curiosity rose as Jackson fished inside his pocket. “This was personally delivered for you. Urgent, he said. Told ‘im I’d get it to you. Doctor’s honor.” He held out a folded piece of paper. 

“You did not read it?” he asked, taking the paper and unfolding it. 

Jackson shrugged and resumed waging war with his buttons. “Not my business.” 

Edmund did not care if Jackson saw his reaction—a suspicious quirk of his eyebrow; they both knew that “not my business” had never deterred Jackson before. But Edmund withheld his comments, turning his attention instead to the sloppy, pointed hand that composed a one-line message. 

_ Her condition has grown severe. It is uncertain whether she will survive the month. _

He stared at the paper, overcome by a sense of helpless dread. His throat narrowed as he reread the note. A massive invisible weight bore down on his chest and crushed the air out of him. He half-expected his heart to stop, but his body pulsed with blood, shook with tremors he could not control.

Shoving the paper into his own pocket, Edmund tried to wet his sand-dry lips and rasped, “It is your business now. You will go with me tomorrow morning, hangover or no.” 

“Go with you where?”

“To see my wife.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson accompanies Edmund when he visits Emily. Jackson shares Edmund's suspicion that Emily's deteriorating condition is not rooted in a psychological cause but a physical one.

By some miracle, Jackson did not greet the morning with a hangover. Perhaps because, at some point in the night, he had vacated all the booze left in his guts into the bucket that—he hoped—had been put there for his use. Once he crawled off the sofa, he downed a carafe of water and took a piss with perfect aim. Dead center. He was steady. Sharp. 

Good thing, too, because when he and Reid arrived outside the door of Mrs. Reid’s hospital room, Reid turned to him and said, “Please know, Captain, I need you at your best today.”

His best, now, he couldn’t promise that. But he nevertheless pressed for more. “What I don’t understand, Reid, is why you need me at all. This doesn’t strike me as the kind of moment that needs an audience.”

“You will not be an audience. You’ll be a doctor.” 

“She already has a doctor.”

“Yes, but he has done little more than maintain her.” Reid glanced down the plain windowless corridor, presumably for eavesdroppers. “And now that her condition has deteriorated, I would like a second opinion. Your opinion, as to the cause of this sudden and unexpected change.” 

For Reid, this was high praise. Jackson knew the sophistication and depth of his own talents, but, even so, he doubted his talents would cut it. “I’m not a doctor of the mind, Reid, you know that.”

“I do. And that is precisely why I want your opinion. It is a doctor of the body I need, not the mind,” he said, whipping the hat off his head and turning toward the door. Jackson readied to follow him, but Reid paused. “I trust this will stay between us, Jackson.” 

Of all people, Jane entered Jackson’s mind. He opened his mouth, about to ask if Reid planned to tell Jane about their visit here. Or if he’d already told her. But he snapped his mouth shut as quick as he’d opened it. He had no authority to question, not when he had made more than his share of missteps in his own—currently troubled—relationship. So he only nodded, then followed Reid into the room. 

It was a private room. Single bed. Chest of drawers. Writing desk. Flowers. Books. A wash basin and a pitcher of fresh water. It hardly looked like a hospital room; to Jackson, it looked more like a rented room, small but comfortable. Jackson would have opened the curtains to let the daylight brighten the room, perhaps, but he considered the possibility that Mrs. Reid had only recently woken. There were some days when Jackson didn’t open the curtains until well into the afternoon. And last time he checked, it was still morning. 

Mrs. Reid herself sat up in bed, pillows propped behind her. Her hair was tied in a single thick braid that draped over her shoulder. Her cheeks were rosy, if not a little red. With a slow, sleepy smile, she reached a hand toward her husband. “Edmund,” she said, her speech as slow as her smile. “You’re here.” 

Jackson had prepared himself for vicious contempt—or at least stone-silent resentment—not this warm, even bashful, welcome. The last time he had seen Mrs. Reid, she had hurled insult after insult at her husband, had screamed blame and bitter hatred, even as Jackson had carried her away from the aghast eyes of onlookers. He tried to flatten his face and hide his surprise, standing at the foot of the bed. 

Reid, too, must have prepared himself for hostility, for he drooped with relief and fell into the chair beside her bed. “Oh, Emily,” he whispered and kissed the back of her hand. “Yes. I’m here. And I, uh, I don’t know if you remember Captain Jackson.” 

Reid waved a hand in his direction, and Mrs. Reid’s gaze wandered toward him. She winced as she turned her head. Once her eyes finally settled on him, she stared at him. Her brow creased and her lips curved into a shallow frown, as if she had searched her memory but could not place him. 

Jackson shifted from foot to foot. He looked to Reid, but he watched his wife, who started to shake her head but stopped suddenly, her face scrunched—with pain, Jackson knew. Loose pieces of a blurry puzzle began to fit together. 

“Emily?” Concern raised the pitch of Reid’s voice. 

She turned her head—carefully and slowly—back to Reid and said, “No. No, I’m sorry. I have met him before?” 

“Yes,” Reid answered, but provided no other details. 

“Odd,” she replied, so quiet Jackson had to strain to hear her. “I did not think I would see anyone here but you, Edmund.” 

Jackson moved to stand behind Edmund to keep them both in her field of vision. “Well, I’m pleased to visit, Mrs. Reid.” He swept his hat off his head and flashed a polite smile. “Hope you don’t mind.” 

“No, of course I don’t mind. Besides, there must be a reason that you and I needed to see each other before we all moved on.” 

He and Reid peered at one another. Worry lined Reid’s face. Jackson scrambled for more evidence, still uncertain. Lines of enquiry took shape in his head. 

Before either of them could push for clarification, Mrs. Reid continued. “Do either of you recall how you came to be here? It was not painful, I hope. So many people must endure such pain before they arrive here. I still experience pain from the shadows of my former life, but it will pass soon.”

Fear had etched deeper lines into Reid’s face, and Jackson heard his unspoken plea when he spun around and seized his forearm. “Jackson?” 

For the moment, Jackson stayed where he stood, but spoke in a loud voice, almost a shout, “Mrs. Reid!” 

“Jackson!” Reid hissed. 

He ignored him. “Mrs. Reid!” he repeated, satisfied when she closed her eyes and touched the back of her head, as if to ease a pain there. He continued at a normal volume. “Where do you think you are?” 

“Did no one tell you? This is the next life. And we—all of us here—await the judgement of God.” 

Reid bowed his head. Jackson could not fathom the depths of Reid’s disappointment, but he could not tend to it. He had uncovered another symptom. Another puzzle piece snapped into place. 

“If you don’t mind me askin’, Mrs. Reid, what makes you think that?” 

“I can still recall the last moments of my past life, in the throes of hysteria and despair. And I can recall how the world fell away. When I awoke here, as if from a nightmare, I was already free of so much pain. And the pain that lingered…” She took Reid’s hand and spoke directly to him. Jackson saw how Reid’s shoulders stiffened but how he kept hold of her hand. “Even that pain faded when I admitted the harm I had done to you, Edmund. How I had neglected you. And when I was able to forgive you for the hurt you caused me in turn, the pain of my life left me and I found myself wishing that you were happy.” 

Jackson stared, mesmerized. 

“I hoped you would find happiness with another, Edmund. Did you ever find happiness again?” 

The sound of Reid’s noisy, fast breath filled the room. He looked at Jackson, his mouth wide open and eyes glassy. Reid looked like a stunned rabbit. 

Jackson doubted Reid was capable of an answer and, to spare him, Jackson turned and, in one quick motion, flung open the curtains. Bright sunlight flooded the room through a large multi-paned window. Mrs. Reid cried out with a shrill, broken shriek, squeezing her eyes shut. 

Jackson observed her and, in his head, compiled a list of her visible symptoms. He had it, most like. He was almost certain; only a test could provide concrete confirmation. “I think I have it,” he muttered to Reid, who was trying to attend to his wife and Jackson at once. 

“Emily,” he said in a calm tone, still holding her hand. “Emily, you are safe.” She protested, trying to shield her face. To Jackson, Reid growled under his breath, “Close the curtains, man.” 

As soon as Jackson turned his back to shut the curtains, Reid exploded with alarm. His chair screeched on the floor as he shouted, “Jackson! Jackson!” 

On the bed, Mrs. Reid had collapsed down to the mattress. She flailed and spasmed with convulsions. 

“God damn it,” Jackson mumbled, hurtling toward the door. He threw it open and called for help, catapulting himself back to Reid and his wife. 

“Jackson…” Reid threw him an anxious, helpless glance. His arms shook as he tried to hold her steady. “Emily...Emily…” 

Jackson protected her head, his hands a buffer between her cranium and the iron headboard. He peeked at her face. Her eyes were half-closed. Her mouth gaped like a hooked fish. There was little they could do for her. 

When a doctor and nurse rushed to the bed, Jackson pulled Reid away. “Reid.” He snapped his fingers in front of Reid’s face, but Reid stared with devastation and fear at his wife, who still jerked with such force that the bedframe struck the near wall. 

“Reid, look at me. I know what this is. I _ think _I know what this is. Reid.” 

Finally, the man looked at him. “You do?” 

“It’s not her mind.” 

“What is it?” The desperation in Reid’s voice loosened a bubble of sympathy in Jackson’s chest. “What can cause all this?” 

“Listen. I’ll have to run a test to be sure, but…” Jackson paused as the sounds and activity within the room subsided. The nurse and doctor remained, for the moment, with Mrs. Reid. “Based on the neck pain, headache, sensitivity to light, slowness, delirium, and seizure, it’s most likely pneumococcal meningitis.” 

Reid nodded, almost imperceptibly, and watched his wife, who finally lay still and quiet. He looked dazed, his face pale and twisted with what looked to Jackson like dread and confusion.

While the doctor and nurse remained busy—one jotting notes while the other arranged the bedcovers—Jackson leaned close to Reid and, dropping his voice, he said, “For what it’s worth, Reid, I think she meant what she said.” 

Reid snapped his attention back to Jackson. “You do? Despite her delusions?”

“Her delusions seemed limited to her, uh, location. She recognized you as soon as she saw you. She referred to your...history,” he said, trying to be sensitive. “She spoke slowly, sure, but she was articulate and, from what I can tell, sincere.” 

Jackson wasn’t entirely sure if Reid would resist or draw comfort from his opinion, but had no time to observe a reaction before Mrs. Reid’s doctor joined them. 

“Doctor Roberts,” Reid said. 

“Inspector Reid.” The doctor nodded to Jackson. “Sir. As you can see, Mr. Reid, your wife’s psychosis has progressed to dangerous levels.” 

Jackson caught Reid’s split-second glance but stayed silent. 

“I would recommend,” Doctor Roberts continued, “that you begin to make arrangements and…” He paused to lay a hand on Reid’s shoulder. “Prepare yourself for her passing.” 

He hated to admit it, but Jackson knew the quack wasn’t wrong about _ that_, even if he’d overlooked the underlying infection. 

“We will do all we can to keep her comfortable.” 

Reid nodded with a frown. “Thank you, Doctor Roberts.” 

They both stood in gloomy silence while the doctor and his nurse left the room. When the door clicked shut, Reid practically pounced on him. “Jackson, your theory. You spoke of a test.” 

“A new test, Reid, but, so far, successful as a diagnostic tool."

"Yes, yes, what is it?"

"A lumbar puncture. Takes a sample of cerebrospinal fluid. I’ll be able to have a close look at it back at the shop.” 

“And this will reveal whether she has this infection?” 

“It will, Reid, but even if I’m right, there’s no treatment. No cure.” 

Reid fell silent, blinking as he scanned the floor, the walls, Jackson, his wife; if it surrounded him, Reid’s gaze landed on it. He swallowed. Chewed on his lip. Jackson waited. 

Finally, Reid returned his eyes to Jackson’s and said, “No. I need to know. Run your test.” 

Without argument, Jackson did as he was told.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being exposed to a fatal disease, Edmund and Jackson spend two weeks in quarantine.

Less than an hour after they left Emily, Jackson confirmed meningitis. Less than a minute after that, Jackson hustled them both out the back door of the station house. 

Edmund tried to speak, but Jackson entertained no conversation and no pauses in forward motion until he shut the door of Edmund’s house. 

“I understand the need to isolate ourselves,” Edmund said, his head already filled with a list of loose ends and unfinished business. “But, surely, I could have left word with Artherton to take temporary command of the—”

“You could have,” Jackson said. “If you cared for the old man’s health about as much as a dung beetle’s.” 

Edmund sobered. “Is it…” He removed his hat and set it on its hook with more care than necessary. He tried to sweep from his mind a watery vision of Emily’s face, but it swam there and launched a fleet of little pains into the rest of his body—the twist of helplessness in his guts, an ache of anticipated loss between his shoulder blades, a hammer-strike of guilt at his very center. And, for the first time since they saw Emily, the squeeze of anxiety—fear for his own life. “This infection, is it so easily transmitted?” 

Almost as if to himself, Jackson muttered, “We should have isolated ourselves sooner.” 

“But we…” Edmund searched his memory. “We spoke to no one. We went immediately to the Dead Room.” 

“And that’s a comfort, but, Reid, when you write to Artherton, tell him to watch for symptoms. Neck pain. Sensitivity to light. Persistent headaches.” 

Edmund nodded. 

“Not just in himself, but the whole division.”

“And when can I say we hope to return?”

“Two weeks.” 

“_Two_?”

“Just to be safe. If we’ve got it, we’ll see symptoms sooner, but with this disease, with no effective treatment, no cure..._I _ wouldn’t take the risk.”

“No,” Edmund agreed, although reluctantly. “No, nor would I.” 

Two weeks. Stretched out before him, it seemed a long time. He imagined the angry, twisted faces of his superiors, spitting more accusations of irresponsibility and neglect of duty. He may not have fretted so much had Bennet not also been absent; he hesitated to leave the division to Artherton, who lacked Bennet’s patience—and his skill. He supposed he could rely on Artherton to adhere to procedure and routine, but, nevertheless, Edmund would need to issue clear instructions and demand daily reports, if not for Artherton, then for himself. 

Jackson interrupted his thoughts. “Hope you didn’t have plans.” 

It was as if the word forced to the surface a memory that had been buried by the events of the morning. “I promised Jane I would join her for dinner.”

“Well,” Jackson said, with a flippancy that made Edmund scowl. “Looks like you’re breakin’ your promise. Better write to her, too.” 

In his letter to Artherton, he took the time to explain the circumstances of his sudden absence as well as his expectations in the most clear and explicit terms. He attempted to anticipate and address possible concerns: insubordination, cases that proved too difficult, and press enquiries. He listed case types in order of priority. He concluded the letter with a review of important procedures—disciplinary, evidentiary, detention, and others—and finally instructed the sergeant to contact him with any additional concerns.

Then, with a dull ache in his hand and a near-depleted ink well, he took up another blank piece of paper and prepared himself to write to Jane. 

_ My Dear Jane — _

For a while, his pen remained suspended an inch or so above the paper. He surveyed the empty space, as if he hoped for a perfect letter to materialize before his eyes. 

He did not know how to begin; the clinical and objective explanation he had offered Sergeant Artherton seemed inadequate for Jane. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what he would say if she were there, sat across from him. He pictured her face, staying alert to the quiet voice in his mind. When it finally spoke, he retouched pen to paper. 

_ I must first tell you that I had every wish to spend tonight with you. I did not choose to postpone our evening. I’m afraid I must remain quarantined in my home for two weeks; it is possible that, earlier today, both Jackson and I were exposed to a highly contagious and incurable disease. To protect the health of the general public—but especially of those known to us—we have isolated ourselves to prevent the possible spread… _

Words began to flow like syrup, slow but steady. He included sweet asides to temper the sour news, stating how much he admired her for her determination to improve the lives of the citizenry. He added that he regretted missing the opportunity to see her, to hear her speak—as she often did—with such conviction. _ I appreciate how you employ such an active, logical mind, _ he wrote, _ yet express yourself with such naked emotion. _

He wondered if his deliberate choice of phrase would evoke the same images for her as it did for him, and he indulged in those images for a moment before moving on. 

He told her some details about meningitis, its nature and progression, and promised to inform her immediately if he or Jackson exhibited symptoms. He did not mention Emily or why he had visited her; he wanted to reveal those details in person, when Jane could hear the reassurance in his voice and see his love for her in his face. 

He concluded with:

_ If both Jackson and I remain well, I will come to see you the day our isolation ends. _

_ Yours, _

_ Edmund _

As he sealed the letter—this, his best attempt to set Jane’s mind at ease—he feared it would not have the intended effect. He sensed that she possessed a talent for recognizing half-truths and incomplete stories. He doubted that she would have made it quite so far in politics if she lacked that particular skill. 

He could not rid himself of the worry, but still placed both Artherton’s and Jane’s letters in his letterbox, their new clean stamps visible to the outside, with a note: _ Postman, thank you for posting these letters. I am unable to do so personally; I am ill and do not wish to endanger your health. _

As he turned back to face the inside of his house, the implications of his new, albeit temporary, reality struck him like a sack of flour. He was to stay here. For fourteen days. With Jackson. No other company. No work to occupy him. And no way to acquire additional resources, neither supplies nor food. 

Food concerned him most. He doubted he had a stockpile sufficient to feed both Jackson and himself for two weeks. 

In the kitchen—be it icebox or cupboard—he made a list of all the food he found: 

_ 4 Carrots _

_ 5 Apples _

_ 1 Bag Flour (full) _

_ Half-Round Cheese (small) _

_ 12 Potatoes _

_Oats _

_ Salt _

_ Lard _

_ Raspberry Jam _

_ Herbs (various) _

_ Yeast _

_ 1 Bottle Red Wine _

_ 1 Bottle Whiskey (partial) _

_ Tea _

He took off his coat and tie before sitting at the table in the center of the room. He studied the list. Thanks to the flour and yeast, he saw a way to stretch their supply to thirteen days. Bread required time and only four ingredients: flour, yeast, salt, and water. And he had time, 200 hours of it, thereabout. With these resources, he could produce at least four loaves, perhaps more, which would provide their breakfast, toast with jam. Then, midday, half an apple or carrot each. And a supper of a potato and cheese, or savory herb porridge. Tea, wine, and whiskey as needed. He wondered if the wine and whiskey would last the weekend. 

Next, he took stock of supplies. Firewood and candles. Soap and washing detergent. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, saving his cuffs from the thick layers of dust that coated shelves and tabletops like city snow. Edmund kept the house tidy, but he could not recall when he had last cleaned it. The realization dawned almost at once, and he paused mid-scrawl on the word ‘_matches_’—so far, ‘_matc_’—and felt heat flood his face. He was a capable man, the master of his house, yet he had never—not once—cleaned his own house. Emily. Emily had done it—quietly, and had never requested thanks for it. He thanked her now, a silent whisper in his head, and resolved, at some point during this quarantine, to undertake the task himself. 

When he returned to the kitchen table and reviewed his supply list, he realized it lacked a potentially important component: medicine. For pain, headaches, nausea, or digestive distress, he had nothing but a ginger-and-lemon infusion. He hoped Jackson had a stash of painkillers and scribbled a note on the supply list, a reminder to ask him.

He did not want to consider what would happen if one or both of them fell sick. 

Thankfully, he did not need to; Jackson’s voice diverted his attention. “So,” Jackson said, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. “What d’ya got to eat in this place?” 

With a sober air, Edmund gestured toward the chair nearest him. “Sit down, Jackson.” 

“What, you want to wait on me, Reid?” Jackson grinned, taking the seat.

“If you expect me to play host to you, you will be disappointed.” With lists in hand, he explained the need to ration and abide by the meal schedule he had devised.

Jackson peeked at the schedule, then squinted at the list of food. It took only a few moments for him to conclude: “You know how to bake bread?”

“My job,” he replied. “Before I became a policeman.”

“Well, ain’t you a man of domestic wonder?”

“Hardly.” He snatched his paper from Jackson’s hand, then fetched a potato and thrust it towards his friend. “Your dinner. You may also have a piece of cheese if you wish, about the size of your thumbnail. But that is all.” 

“Well, hot damn, _ cheese_?” he said with mock-surprise. Nevertheless, he took the offered potato and added, “Yeah, I’ll take the damn cheese.” 

Edmund cut two pieces, popping one in his mouth and handing the other to Jackson.

“You know, Reid, sometimes I think you’d-a done well in the Army. Good discipline. Work ethic. Advantageous size, come to that,” Jackson mused, as he set a pot of water on the stove to boil. “But then I remember, nah. Too much fightin’. Not enough brain work.” Jackson turned to face him. “That why you quit the bakehouse?” 

“I was recruited,” he said, choosing a potato for himself. “After I had pursued a man who had thieved another shop—a horologist.”

Jackson grinned. 

“It’s a—”

“I know what it is,” Jackson said. 

Edmund raised his eyebrows and waited. 

Recognizing the challenge to prove himself, Jackson rolled his eyes and replied, “A watchmaker. Clockmaker.” 

When I returned the man’s watches—one, I remember, had a beautiful, iridescent mother of pearl face. It was quite stunning.” He paused, recalling the timepiece and how, even then, he had wished to keep it for himself. 

“And?” Jackson prompted, apparently unimpressed by this aside. 

“Uh, and, when I returned, the police were already there and, upon hearing the story, arranged for me to meet the head of the division, an Inspector Baker, as it happened.” 

He had hoped for a little chuckle, but, at that moment, the water boiled over the top of the pot, hissing and bubbling. Jackson whipped around and tended to it, then added their potatoes to the water. As Jackson worked, questions tumbled in Edmund’s mind, ones that had arisen over and over throughout the day, ones that he had pushed aside while Jackson was otherwise occupied. 

But now, with Jackson here, the questions were harder to suppress, and the first floated out of his mouth as if on its own, unsure of the form it should take. “Jackson, I wonder, do you...have you…do you have any theories as to how, uh, as to how Emily may have been…” 

“Infected?” 

“Yes.” Edmund tried to will his heartbeat to settle into a slower rhythm, half-afraid of Jackson’s answer. 

“I’ve been thinkin’ about that.” Jackson poked at the potatoes with a fork. “Meningitis spreads fast in populated spaces. Overcrowded tenements. Schools. Shelters.” 

“Yes, but she would have had to come into close contact with an infected person, would she not?”

“Mostly likely.”

“And one would expect hospital staff to separate infected persons from healthy ones.” 

“One would. Even visitors.” Jackson paused. “Even husbands.” 

“So you…” Edmund’s mind whirred. He pointed at Jackson. “So you believe the staff—Emily’s doctors and nurses...you believe that they did not know?” 

“They either didn’t know or—”

“Or they knew and did not care if she infected others. Or that was, perhaps, the design, for her to be the means by which the disease spread.” 

“Or they cared, but not enough to let news of an outbreak ruin the hospital’s reputation.” 

Edmund fell hard onto a chair. Whatever the case, Emily was the victim of incompetence, indifference, or deliberate disregard. The realization shook him and lit a hot, furious fire in his chest. When Jackson presented him with whiskey, he accepted it in silence and, with one swallow, sent one burn down to meet the other. 

~~~~~

The next day, Edmund woke early. 

In the parlour, he found Jackson still asleep in his makeshift bed. The bottle of whiskey sat on the floor; Edmund examined it and determined that Jackson had helped himself to at least a third of the bottle. The man had likely spent another few hours awake, once Edmund had padded his way to bed. Exhaustion had sent Edmund into a deep, lengthy sleep, but, as he often did, Jackson had opted for alcohol-induced unconsciousness.

And Jackson remained in that state while Edmund spent the morning moving about the house. 

With a determination to make himself useful, he started the day by forming a simple bread dough. He had to consult a book for the proper proportions, but his hands remembered how to mix and knead the dough. As a baker, he had made countless loaves—and buns, cakes, pies, and pastry—and, later, as a father, he had passed the skill to Mathilda. On cloudy weekends, she knelt on a chair and leaned over the table, copying the way he spread and stretched the dough across the floured surface with the heel of his hand. Emily watched from the doorway and applauded Mathilda’s misshapen loaf, proclaiming their flour-dusted girl the star baker of the family. 

As if to force the memory from his mind, he rocked forward and backward, leveraging his body weight as he pushed hard at the dough, then folded it on top of itself, then turned it, pushed it, folded it, turned it. Pushed, folded, turned. Pushed, folded, turned. Soon his breaths mimicked his motion; they came and went like a tide as he moved like an ocean. His mind emptied. His body calmed. 

For the next hour, as the ball of dough proved in the summer heat, he cleaned. He hoped that—as he wiped dust off mantles and tables, as he swept the floors and restored the windows to spotless transparency—his mind would see a way to the answers he needed, answers that explained Emily’s condition, her doctor’s behavior, the state of the hospital—all of it. But no answers came. No epiphanies struck when he returned to the kitchen and shaped the dough into two oval loaves. No plans developed as he scrubbed the bathroom, or changed the bedsheets, or slapped dust from the curtains. 

And when his eyes fell on framed photographs of Emily and Mathilda, there on his bedside table, he froze. 

As he stared at their faces, his body tensed with frustration. His hands curled into fists—squeezed until his nails carved crescents into his palms—as frustration exploded into rage.

He stomped forward and seized the frames. 

Such _ injustice. _ Injustice for Mathilda, for Emily, for _him. _

Prowling from room to room, he snatched up every concrete reminder of his past life. Emily’s shoes and clothes. Mathilda’s little hats. Emily’s favorite rose-scented soap. 

Mathilda, stolen from them. Emily, lost to him. His family, his marriage, his _ life_, in tatters. 

He wrenched open a drawer and fished out a necklace. A delicate silver chain embellished with five brilliant amethyst stones and tiny pearls. Emily had worn it the day they were married.

In tatters, and for why? Bad luck. Terrible, terrible luck. And his steadfast belief that Mathilda still lived. That, one day, he would find her. 

He found a hairbrush in the bedroom. Dark, fine strands were still trapped in the bristles. His throat narrowed when he found a flame-orange hair. His eyes blurred and burned. Mathilda’s little voice invaded his head: _ Daddy, Daddy! Mummy and I brushed each other’s hair! Come see! _He had seen, and he had smiled, and he had kissed Mathilda’s cheek before she ran off to play, then kissed Emily’s mouth, tangled his hands in her freshly-brushed hair, and took her to their bed. 

Those treasured pieces of his life, taken. And a new one had been forced upon him, even while he still clawed at the old fragments. 

He carried all these pieces—these pictures and mementos and accoutrements of daily family life—to Mathilda’s bedroom and dumped it all onto the floor. His hands shook as he separated each picture from its frame and slid them, one by one, into an envelope, which he packed into a trunk. Mathilda’s books followed. Then, her toys. Emily’s jewelry. Her hairbrush. A large, intact seashell. All the rest. 

He’d done his best to cope with his new life. He’d dedicated himself to his work, tried to socialize with Bennet and Jackson when time allowed, and now he had finally allowed himself to love another woman, to reach for a happier life. And, as ever, external forces threw themselves into his path and ensnared him, impeded him, like unwanted brambles in a newly-ordered garden. 

By the time he shut and locked Mathilda’s door, the bread had finished, Jackson had awoken, and Edmund’s rage had fizzled. But, as he accepted the tea Jackson offered him, his heart clenched around a thorny knot of despair. 

Later, Edmund commandeered the bottle of wine and, as Jackson had one night previous, drank until he slipped into a fitful sleep. 

~~~~~

The motivations that had kept Edmund busy the first full day of their quarantine wavered in the middle of the week. 

Over five days, he continued to make bread. He read. He kept in daily communication with Artherton. To Edmund’s mild disappointment, the division was not floundering without him, although according to Artherton’s reports—and the newspapers—they were benefiting from a rather light week. 

On Wednesday, he sent a second letter to Jane—short and direct. _I understand if you are angry, but I would nevertheless like to hear from you._ _Please write. _

Jane’s silence distressed him. He had not expected to be so affected, but he could not deny the anxiety that constricted his airway whenever she came to mind—anxiety that made his stomach churn and disrupted his sleep. Fears surfaced in his brain: what if she had learned of his visit with Emily? Or, what if she sensed that he had withheld information and resented him for it? Or, what if she had never received his letters at all and so, disappointed in his silence, had withdrawn from his life entirely? Whatever the specifics, in his mind, he could attribute Jane’s silence to only one possibility: she no longer cared for him. 

The idea devastated him—that he would be faced with the loss of Emily and Jane within the same week ripped and tore at him. His appetite waned. On Tuesday evening, he’d had to force himself to swallow little spoonfuls of porridge; it had tasted like wet sawdust in his mouth. He wished they hadn’t drunk all of the whiskey and wine.

Now, with only a cup of tea, he sat in his armchair as the weak, cloud-obscured sun traveled across the sky, and thoughts fermented in his brain. He stared at the clock over the fireplace. His eyes tracked the tip of the minute hand as it snapped from one position to the next, ‘round and ‘round. ‘Round and ‘round. 

He almost jumped out of his chair when, from behind him, Jackson asked, “What day is it?” 

“Christ, Jackson,” he mumbled, his hand spread over the center of his chest, as if his own touch could soothe the rabbit-fast _ thump-thump-thump _ of his heart. “Announce yourself, man.” 

“I’m not the only one out of it, I see,” Jackson said, flopping onto the sofa. “What is it? Wednesday? I lost track.”

Edmund scowled at the clock. “Thursday.” 

“And, may I say, you seem thrilled about that.” 

Edmund shifted in his chair. 

“You’re not sick, are you?” Jackson asked. “Fever? Sore neck? Headaches?” 

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Nothing. You?”

“So far, so good.” As if to illustrate the point, Jackson crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and lit a cigarette. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he said, “About the hospital.” 

“What about it?”

“Best.”

Edmund wondered if he had missed part of Jackson’s sentence. “The best what?”

“No, I…” Jackson fidgeted; the foot that made contact with the floor bounced, making his whole body do likewise. “I think I can convince Best to sniff around for us.” 

“Fred Best?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of _The Star_?”

“Is there another one?”

Edmund sputtered for a moment, unable to comprehend Jackson’s proposal. “Why? Why on _ earth _would you want to involve Best in this? This! Of all things?”

“Because we need objective evidence, Reid.” 

“And you believe Best can provide that, do you?”

“_You _ sure as hell can’t. _ No one _ would believe any evidence you might happen to find. No one. Not a judge, not a jury. And that assumes there’s any evidence at all.” 

“If I presented hard evidence, they would have to believe it.” 

“Oh, come on, Reid. That’s wishful thinkin’, and you know it.” Jackson uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, pointing at him with the hand that held his cigarette. “If word comes out about Emily—and, believe me, it will—the whole case will be written off as the personal vendetta of a guilt-stricken husband lookin’ to lay blame, hard evidence or not.” 

Edmund seethed. He had seen and taken part in enough trials to know that proof, even the most undeniable, objective proof, was not always the key to success. The _ story _mattered. Timelines, testimony, and narratives mattered. Even if the hospital had committed deliberate acts of the worst kind, its administrators would skirt justice if all of the attention was focused on him or evidence was called into question. And furthermore, Jackson was right—there may be no evidence at all; Emily may have simply contracted the illness. More bad luck. But, even so, Edmund could not bear to jeopardize such a critical investigation before it even started. 

He stayed silent while he contemplated all this. Jackson had almost finished his cigarette when Edmund said, “If we do this…” 

Jackson’s eyes widened. 

“_If _ we do this,” he repeated, hardly able to believe he was _ actually _ considering an alliance with Fred Best. “What are you prepared to offer him? You and I both know he will demand his _ quid pro quo_.” 

“I have somethin’ in mind.” 

“And what that?”

“I think it’s best if you maintain, uh...” Jackson waved a lazy hand, as if trying to conjure his words from the air. “Plausible deniability.” 

“I see.” He eyed Jackson, unable to pinpoint why, for so little personal gain, he would volunteer to serve as liaison between the police and Fred Best. “Why do you want to do this?”

Jackson shrugged. “We’re friends.” 

“Yes, I’d like to think so,” Edmund replied. “But that is not your true motivation.” 

Jackson put out his stubby cigarette on the sole of his shoe and flicked the butt into the fireplace. “Boredom, then.” 

More plausible, but still not the truth. Edmund stared at the cold fireplace, periodically glancing at Jackson. Finally, he stood up and, from the doorway, said, “Do it. Talk to Best.” 

~~~~~

Jackson sent his letter to Fred Best the next day. Edmund had reviewed it before Jackson sealed it and, more or less, approved its contents. He had reservations about whether Best would leap so readily at the mere promise of “_the opportunity to publish an expose that would earn him widespread journalistic renown_.” And, although he did not ask, he had a hunch that Jackson had alternative, juicier bait with which to hook Best, should the man remain unconvinced. 

Restlessness plagued Edmund throughout the weekend. In the afternoons, he sat at the window and watched passers-by. He studied them, trying to infer their occupations or business, based on what they carried or wore, who they spoke to, how they walked. He slumped in his chair, yearning to be among them. When a musician ambled past the house, Edmund nearly threw open the window to ask the man to play, on the violin he carried, a piece of his choosing. Anything to communicate with—even in roundabout fashion—someone other than Jackson and to ease his disappointment in the collective silence of Best and Jane. 

On Monday, he took a hot bath. Steam rose from the surface of the water in a curtain of vapor. The water turned his skin a pale shade of red. Sweat dripped from his chin, onto his chest, and into the water. He closed his eyes and inhaled the dense, humid air, pleased with the way the intense heat narrowed his focus to physical sensations. 

Even after he dried off, his skin still radiated with warmth. No doubt his face was still flushed. He dressed in his most comfortable trousers and shirt, not bothering with a waistcoat, and padded barefoot into the kitchen for a cup of tea. 

The water had not yet begun to steam when Jackson shouted, “Reid! Get in here!”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m making tea!” 

“Damn your tea! Get in here!” 

Curiosity battled with obstinacy, but only for a moment. As he made his way toward the parlor, he said, “If you have called me in here to show me that you have set fire to my curtains, I shall have you on the street the moment we—”

His voice was snuffed out like a candle when he laid his eyes on the window—or, rather, on the person who bounced and waved on the other side of it. 

“Jane,” he said, his mouth open and his body frozen in place with shock. 

“Edmund!” Jane waved faster, then motioned him closer. “Darling, open the window!” 

_ Darling. _The endearment, even in her half-muffled voice, erased all the fear and worry that had tormented him for days. Warm relief flooded his whole torso as she beamed at him, her face lit by rays of afternoon sunshine. He stared at her, still half-dazed, while Jackson opened the window—only a crack, but one that allowed ambient conversation and street noise to float into the room. 

Jackson slapped his shoulder, then disappeared from the room. Edmund stepped to the window with soft, careful feet, as if too quick a movement would make her vanish. He stared at her, embarrassed that all he could think to say was: _ Jane. You’re here. You’re not angry with me. You haven’t left me. Thank you. Thank you. You’re here. _

She broke the silence first. The subtle notes of her voice found their way to his ears, clear and crisp, when she said, “I’ve never seen you with wet hair before.”

Helpless to stop himself, he smiled—a full, joyous smile—and ran his fingers through his damp strands. Still, he did not know what to say, and he chewed on his bottom lip when his smile faded. 

“You are well, I hope,” she said, that hope borne in her eyes as well as her words. 

“As far as we can tell,” he replied. 

“Good.” 

An awkward, restless silence fell between them. Jane bit her lip and, for the first time since her arrival, lowered her eyes. Creases formed between her eyebrows. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. And despite these signs of hesitation and discomfort, she stunned him with her beauty. His hands twitched with the desire to throw the window wide open and brace himself on the frame while he leaned forward to kiss her. With an abrupt motion, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. 

The movement seemed to capture her attention, and she raised her head to look at him. “I am sorry, Edmund,” she said. “I am sorry I did not come to see you before now.” 

He shook his head. “No, no, it’s—”

“I intended to reply to your first letter as soon I read it, but I was called upon unexpectedly by my political agent, who insisted we discuss my plans for re-election and—”

“Re-election?” he asked. “Already?” He knew very little of election cycles and was struck by a little burst of relief that, although he held a position of public service, he did not require public approval to keep it. 

“Apparently I must launch a campaign by the spring of next year if I wish to keep my seat.

“Ah,” he said. “And you do, I imagine? Wish to keep your seat?” 

“I would have believed the answer known to you.” She flashed him a playful smile. “I so often hear criticism of my performance, I was elated to read such eloquent praise for my ‘heartfelt and extraordinary dedication to the people of the East.’ I hope you have considered the terms of my offer. It is an important position, and, as I’m sure you can see, I am _ quite serious_.” 

He heard her mischievous tone, but he could make no sense of the words themselves. Such a cloud of confusion descended over him that the world seemed to disappear. 

She must have noticed and rushed to continue. “Did you not receive my letter?” 

“Your letter?” he echoed, still perplexed. “No. No, I did not. You sent it here?” 

“I did. Four days ago.” 

“Ah. No, uh...perhaps it will still be delivered.” As the haze lifted, a smile threatened to spill across his face. Inside him, disappointment mixed with relief. Relief because she had written to him. Disappointment because he had been robbed of the pleasure of it. 

“Well,” she said, perturbed. “The joke would have amused you, if you had read it.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” 

“You also,” she added, “would have been aware that I planned to bring you”—she paused to heave a basket onto the window frame—“this.” 

“Oh, that is…uh, here.” He positioned a chair just below the window and backed away to the other side of the room, allowing her to open the window fully and set the basket on the cushion. 

When she closed the window again, but for a small crack, he crossed the room and peeked inside the basket. With only a cursory scan, he spotted strawberries, shiny and vibrant, full of juice; eggs, rich and nourishing; two hand-raised pies, still warm; and tea. 

“Did you make the pies yourself?” he asked, curious to know if they shared a skill with pastry. 

Jane dispelled that notion with a little bark of laughter. “Oh, God, no. I’m a shameful cook.” 

“Well...” he trailed off and remained quiet while he lifted the basket onto the table and returned to the window. He pulled at the end of his sleeve and tried to dip his thumbs into waistcoat pockets that were not there. Instead, his thumbs slid down the fabric of his shirt and his hands flopped down to his sides. When his eyes met Jane’s, his stomach jerked, as if he had taken a soft knuckle-jab. There would never be a comfortable moment for the news he must share. So he wet his lips and said, ”I’m afraid I must return your kindness with cruelty.” 

She went stiff and quiet.

Before she could speak, he continued. “In my letter, I purposefully did not mention the person from whom I may have contracted this illness.”

But for fast blinks of her eyes and the almost imperceptible expansion and contraction of her body as she breathed, she did not move. 

“I was concerned that you would not understand the reason for my visit with this person if I did not…” He waved his hand with a weak, frustrated flourish. “Tell you directly.”

“Who was it?” she whispered. 

Iron-heavy dread slammed into his chest. He swallowed. “Emily.” 

She nodded. Once. 

Panic constricted his throat, but he pushed words out of his mouth as fast as he could. “Jane, you must know...I do not love her as I once did, but I am—I am responsible for her and—and I do not wish to see her suffer, and I needed Jackson to see her condition, which her doctors believed to be caused by a mental disturbance, but when Jackson determined the true cause, it lead us both to believe that the hospital may have mistreated—not only Emily, but, it’s possible, other patients in their care, and I could not—”

“Edmund, stop.” 

“—bear it if I allowed them to—”

“Edmund! Stop.” 

He stopped. In the silence, he pulled saliva from the back of his mouth and wet his dry palate, his eyes fixed on her face. 

“I understand,” she said. 

He searched her face for any hint of a lie and found none. His suspicion persisted. “You do?”

“Edmund, do you believe I would rather be with a man who could be so cold-hearted as to treat the woman he married with such indifference or with one who acted with compassion and concern?” 

A whirlpool of discomfort churned in his stomach. He blinked at her and, despite the calm acceptance of her demeanor, repeated, “I do not love her as I once did.” 

“I know.” 

“And I did not want you to believe that my visit revived any previous—”

“I do not,” she said. “I do not believe that.” 

He nodded and, after another heavy silence, added, “I will need to, uh, handle her affairs.” 

Jane’s face softened. “Of course.” 

“Bury her. When the time comes.” 

She dropped her gaze, whispering, “Yes.” 

He became more and more conscious of the sweat on his back and the heat in his face. “And, uh, if we discover the hospital has hidden news of an outbreak and have risked the lives of its patients and—”

“Then you will need my help.” 

He blinked, blindsided. “What? No, I could not—”

“You cannot, even in your capacity as the chief officer of your division, conduct an investigation into this hospital without others calling into question your objectivity.” Her lips stretched into a rueful smile. “Do not look so surprised, Edmund. Politicians must always be alert for potential conflicts of interest.” 

His shoulders relaxed as he returned her little smile. “And you did not detect a conflict of interest with me?” 

“I do not believe you will corrupt my professional judgement, no,” she replied. 

“Do I have so little influence with you?” he teased. 

“I am impervious to external influence,” she volleyed, her smile brightening. 

“Then I suppose it would be of no use to request that the Council explore the possibility of a public health crisis within its hospitals.” 

“No use at all.” 

“Are you certain you are a politician?” 

Finally, she released a soft breathy laugh and, to his relief, shifted the conversation to a new subject. “You will come to dinner when you are...released?” 

“Provided you don’t cook.” 

“I will not, I promise,” she said, her smile broadening but fading quickly. “You will...tell me if you…uh...” 

He shook his head, unable to complete her sentence.

“If you cannot make it.” 

“Oh,” he said, now understanding. “Yes. But I would not worry, Jane.” 

“You may say that all you like, Edmund, but…” She glanced down, gathering fistfuls of her skirt. “I am scared for you.” 

“Truly, you need not—”

When she raised her head, she silenced him with her pained expression—her severe frown and tear-heavy eyes. “I could not bear it if you—”

“Jane.” He pressed his hand to the window, as if his touch could breach its surface and comfort her. “Please. Do not worry yourself. At this point, it is unlikely we will suffer any ill effects and I do not wish to see you in such distress, Jane, please.”

“I cannot help but worry, Edmund. I love you.” Her face crinkled with a weak, tearful smile. “I love you _so_ much.” 

“Oh, Jane...” While her declaration did not completely surprise him, it burrowed into his chest and filled all of his tiny, empty places. Hollows that had been carved out by the meanness and baseness of life. His thumb stroked the window as if it were her cheek. The oil of his skin left a faint streak, but he could not find it within himself to care. “I love you, Jane.” 

Without the ability to touch her—to kiss her—he did not know how to bolster his words. His chest ached—for Jane, more than himself—and, at a loss for further action, he shut his eyes and touched his forehead to the glass. When he blinked and looked forward, he found her eyes on the other side, too close to see properly. Just little pools of blue, dark in the shadow of her own head and as close as they would be today.

They remained there, both of them still and quiet, until Jane jerked away. Touching her head, she peered at the sky. “Rain. And I do not have an umbrella.” 

All around her feet, black rain dotted the street. He wished he could invite her inside. Wrap a blanket around her. Hold her while hot flames flickered and danced in the fireplace and warmed them, even from a distance. But he swallowed the words he wished to say and uttered, “Go. I will see you in five days.”

With a fond grin, she echoed him. “Five days.” 

He stayed at the window until she disappeared from view.

~~~~~

Two days later—and with little to do that he had not already done—Edmund sat at his desk and began to make arrangements for Emily’s death. 

Emily had few affairs to put in order. She had never owned property. Her shelter had been taken over by another woman at her church. Of her family, only a sister remained. 

He and his sister-in-law, Abigail, had maintained a polite relationship throughout the marriage. Since Mathilda’s disappearance, that relationship had deteriorated into open hostility. Their only communication since the steamer incident had concerned Emily’s admittance to the hospital, which had only served to deepen the hatred she harbored for him. He dispensed with her letter first, keeping its contents direct and matter-of-fact; she would sneer at expressions of comfort or sympathy.

Next—with another letter—he ordered a casket. He left little to the maker’s discretion, specifying both length and shape, the type and color of the wood, the style of fastenings, and the type of finish. He included a down-payment and asked to be billed for the remainder upon completion. 

Finally, he wrote to her church and requested burial for her, confident the vicar would agree; Emily had been highly regarded for her almost-constant service within the community. 

When the postman took away his letters, he took some of Edmund’s shame and sorrow with them. Guilt had pressed so heavily on his chest that, when it lifted—as he stood at the window and watched his letters disappear—he drew a fuller, deeper breath than he had in…

He shook his head. Since Mathilda had sunk below the black water of the Thames. 

Later, as he allowed himself to enjoy the rich, gamey flavors of Jane’s venison pie, her recent words echoed in his head: _I am scared for you. I love you. I love you _so _much. _He was tempted to hide his smile, but decided to let it spread. 

Across the table, Jackson tilted his head. “You know, Reid,” he said, still chewing. “If you and Jane ever want the house to yourself, just, uh...say the word.” 

“What word is that?” he said. “Possibly: you are an invited guest in my house, and I may revoke that invitation whenever I wish. That word?” 

“Pfft. You got a way of takin’ the fun out of things, don’t you?” 

“A practiced skill.” 

“No, this”—he pointed with his fork—“this is a natural inclination.” 

Not entirely comfortable with such a personal examination, Edmund turned their focus on Jackson and to a topic they had never discussed. “Have you given any thought to how long you wish to stay here?” 

“Why? You in a hurry to kick me out?”

“No, actually, I—” 

“I’ve been on the lookout for a place.”

Edmund raised his eyebrows. “You have abandoned your hope of returning to Tenter Street?”

“On the contrary, Reid. But I’d like to sleep in a bed sometime soon. My back ain’t what it used to be.” He finished the last of his pie before adding, “Besides, I think we’ve both spent enough quality time together lately, don’t you?” 

They exchanged grins. 

“Quite so,” Edmund said. “So, since you are making these plans, I take it you believe we will be clear to...uh, resume our normal lives?” 

“I doubt we’ll develop symptoms at this point, but we should stay put the next three days.” 

“And then?”

“And then we can move about as we please. Don’t ever say you got no good luck, Reid.” 

~~~~~

Edmund arrived at the station house at 6:00 a.m. 

When he’d left the house, his heart had whispered a plea to see Jane, but he yearned to first shake off the cobwebs of idleness and return to work. 

As Artherton recited the daily roll, Edmund relished every word. He closed two cases before lunch. He interviewed two candidates to replace Flight and, when he went down to the duty desk to tell Artherton of his choice—a smart young man called Grace—he found Bennet, who he had not expected to see for another week. 

“Bennet! You are returned early.” 

“Indeed, I am, Inspector. Two weeks was plenty. You don’t mind, sir, if I come back today?” 

Edmund smiled, relieved to have Bennet back. “No! No, of course not!” 

The bustle and noise of the station house whirled about them until Bennet raised his eyebrows, looked from one man to the other, and said, “So. What did I miss ‘round here?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a two week separation, Jane and Edmund reunite for dinner at Jane’s house, where she surprises Edmund with a meaningful gesture and is finally able to thank him for an act of service he performed for her soon after they’d met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who continues to follow this story. It means a lot to me that you’re reading, but it would certainly make my whole day if you left a comment, however short. (I’m also on a two week winter break, so I hope for a few more updates before I have to go back to work! Stay tuned.)

Jane waited for five days, ill at ease and restless. Whenever the post arrived, she eyed the little stacks of envelopes with suspicion, as if they were—at that very moment—conspiring to obscure their contents and drive her mad.

“We shall always lie face down,” one envelope would say.

“And we shall always open with difficulty,” another would add.

“Remember to rip your letters. Clean through, if you can manage it. As many lines as possible.”

“Yes, the less readable, the better.”

Trying to quiet her imagination, she sifted through each delivery, tossing aside every letter not from Edmund.

On the fifth day, she flipped over an ivory envelope and finally—finally—saw her name written in Edmund’s tidy scrawl. By then, she had allowed her wounded frustration to multiply unfettered, and so, with a huff, she tore open his letter.

It contained, at least, good news. He and Jackson were both healthy and, as he had promised, he planned to arrive at her home by six o’clock.

Jane instructed her cook and housekeeper—perhaps colder than necessary—to prepare for Edmund’s arrival.

The cook, a tall older woman named Beatrix, smiled, apparently unaffected by Jane’s tone. “Are we stickin’ to the plan, ma’am?” she asked. “The one you mentioned a couple-a weeks back?”

A petty, obstinate whisper in her mind said, _No, the man does not deserve such a fuss_. But she recalled his relief when she had surprised him outside his window. She recalled the rich, earnest notes of his voice when he had expressed his love for her. She recalled the last line of the letter she still held in her hand—_The past two weeks have seemed to stretch two years; I have missed you dearly, Jane._—and felt the thaw of her own annoyance.

“Yes, Beatrix,” she replied. “Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful.”

~~~

The clock in the sitting room chimed a fifth and final time when Edmund arrived.

At his soft knock, Jane rushed in shoeless feet toward the door. She had only just dressed; with the help of her housemaid, she had weaved a vibrant blue ribbon into the plaits of hair that crowned her head. The ribbon matched the fabric she wore—such a colorful contrast to the neutral tones she usually chose. She had selected this frock not only for its color but also its cut; unlike her daytime and professional attire, this exposed her shoulders and the swells of her breasts. She had worn a similar gown once, but Edmund had been occupied in his attempt to stop a bomb and arrest the man responsible—and rightly so—but now, without so many distractions, she wished to capture and hold his attention.

When she opened the door, she found Edmund with his hat already in his hand. She heard his breath leave him and did not bother to suppress her smile when his hat fell and rolled back and forth on its rounded top between their feet. Edmund blinked at her, then dove for his hat, stammering, “Uh, Jane, my God, you, uh...I...”

Despite the light breeze, her skin warmed with a sense of pleasure and satisfaction. She flashed him a fond smile. “Edmund. Come in.”

Sidling past her, he said, “I did not expect to be greeted by the lady of the house herself.”

She closed the door and came to stand in front of him. Without her shoes, she stood only as tall as the slope of his shoulders and, to compensate, she raised her chin when she replied, “It is a privilege reserved only for the most special guests.”

“Well. I am honored.”

“No,” she whispered. “You are early.”

He leaned closer to her. “I did not believe you would mind.”

“Indeed, I don’t.” When she touched the back of his neck, she froze, stopping to absorb the warmth of his skin. The softness of his short, fine hair. The shape and movement of his muscles, tendons, and bones as he dipped his head and kissed her. Shocked her. And her hand squeezed—squeezed those muscles and tendons as she raised herself onto her tiptoes and opened her mouth to deepen the kiss.

She feared for one absurd moment that her bones would dissolve, leaving her to melt into a doughy mass on the floor. Dominated by the thought, her hands grasped his shoulders and her toes pushed her up, straining. When Edmund hooked an arm around her waist, she relaxed and hummed into his slow, lingering kisses. Kisses she had wanted. Kisses she had missed these past two weeks.

When she finally withdrew, she did so to ease the ache in her arches. “I am so relieved, so relieved, Edmund, that you are well,” she said, allowing emotion to thicken her voice.

“As am I,” he said, tossing his hat onto a narrow table. “If I had been forced to spend the remainder of my life with Jackson alone, in that house, I might have orchestrated my own end simply to save myself the aggravation.”

“That is, if you did not kill him first.”

“Yes, but then I would’ve had to contend with a body, which, I think you would agree, would be a terrible inconvenience.”

“I see you’ve given this quite a lot of thought.”

“I had quite a lot of time.”

At a loss for a sharp-witted response, she smiled, a little embarrassed. “Well,” she started, partially to fill the silence. “We have time now—”

“Quite a lot?” he teased.

“No, not _quite_ a lot,” she said, taking his hand. “But enough for a drink. If you would like to follow me, Mr. Reid.” She could not pinpoint the precise moment the formal form of address had become a playful tease, but she enjoyed—as she always had—this new way to mock decorum. And judging by his grin, so did he.

He trailed her up the stairs without comment. When she ushered him into a room at the end of the hall, he remained silent. Silent, but for audible breaths, as he stared open-mouthed at the walls of books that composed Jane’s library.

She left him there to pour him a splash of whiskey and, with it, coaxed him to the center of the room.

With as much reverence as a holy man in church, he said, “Jane, this is marvelous. There must be a thousand volumes on this wall alone.”

“Nearly,” she whispered, spreading her hand over the small of his back. “Go have a closer look.”

He needed no further invitation. She watched him circle the room. He made no noise as he walked—only as he sipped his whiskey—and surveyed rows of books, sculptures and ornate French vases, decorative bookends. Every little while, he would pause to open a book and peruse its contents. He spent several minutes with a book he had plucked from her favorite collection, and she bit her lip, aware of the sudden flutters in her belly.

“I’ve never seen a private library of this size,” he said when he returned to her. “It must have taken years to build.”

“Decades,” she said. “My father started it when he became a publisher. And aside from developing collections of particular interest to himself, he added volumes on subjects that I—or my brother and sister, or mother—requested.” She paused while Edmund set his empty glass on a small side table. “He was a kind man,” she continued. “He did all he could to encourage our education. My mother liked to say how he had read to us weeks before our birth, then every day afterward, until we learned to read for ourselves.”

“And he passed this entire collection to you?”

“Anne and Charlie each have volumes of their own,” she said. “But what you see here comprises seventy percent, or thereabouts, of the entirety.”

“When did your father—”

“Five years this September.”

“And who was it,” he said, his tone brightening, “so interested in the oceans?”

A little burst of heat spread across her cheeks in what she knew was a deep blush. “I am fascinated by it.”

“What about it?”

“Everything. Sea life. Plant life. Its depth and breadth. Its great swaths of unknown. Its chemistry. It contains the tiniest and largest of creatures. It seems...it seems not of this world. Entirely alien. It is as if the ocean itself is a living creature, massive and full of secrets.”

He regarded her with a gentle smile.

“What?” she asked.

Still smiling, he shook his head. His gaze drifted over her shoulder and, with alarming abruptness, his smile faded.

“Edmund?”

His eyes snapped back to her face. “Those shelves there.” He nodded over her shoulder. “They’re, um—they’re all empty.”

She did not need to look; she had planned to do this after dinner. After they had talked and laughed and touched. After they had already enjoyed hours of each other’s company. Her stomach clenched. “They are.”

“Are they normally kept empty?” His face scrunched with a quizzical expression as he peered at the shelves, then at her.

“No,” she whispered, unable to speak with more force than that.

“So, what? Why are they—”

“They’re for you, Edmund.”

His eyebrows jumped half the height of his forehead. “For me?”

The muscles of her neck and chest constricted, threatening to choke her. She cleared her throat, but could only croak: “Yes.” Her ears pulsed and burned.

Edmund stared at her, frozen. She could not decipher his reaction and wished he would speak. Move. Laugh. Stomp out of the room. Something she could interpret. With only his static expression, she did not know if he did not understand, was horrified, or was simply struck speechless with surprise. She forced a mouthful of saliva down her throat to ensure it had not closed completely.

She forced herself to recover—reminding herself that she had already told him she loved him; this was not such a leap. Relieved to hear the embarrassment absent in her voice, she said, “I thought you must have books as well.”

“I, uh, I do, yes.”

“Well, you are welcome to keep them here, if you’d like. If you’d like to spend more time here.”

He did not smile, but a soft look of contentment settled on his face. He took her hand and laid a delicate kiss on her middle knuckle. Keeping hold of her fingers, he responded, “I would. Very much.”

~~~

Beatrix had executed the plan to perfection. On the back lawn, Jane found a blanket laid out with their supper—roast chicken, various accompaniments, a bottle of chilled wine. Beatrix had even cut several yellow roses from the bushes that lined the walls and sprinkled them around the blanket.

“Oh,” Edmund uttered. “Here?”

Jane chose her spot on the blanket and, with her skirt fanned about her, reached for the wine. “Do you remember,” she said over the splash of the wine, “when you saved my life?”

Careful not to tread on her skirt, Edmund sat beside her and took the proffered wine. He shook his head.

She sipped from her glass. “At Mr. Ferranti’s demonstration.”

Recognition bloomed on his face. “Ah, yes! The dynamite.”

“You never allowed me to thank you, but I had wanted to do this.” Glancing at the spread, she added, “Not quite so elaborate. And at Hampstead, I think I had said, not here.”

“Perhaps it is better this way. Private.”

“I wish it did not need to be,” she blurted out, unable to help herself. It had started to prick at her brain, this need to hide—tiny bothersome needles that vied for attention whenever Edmund crossed her mind. “I know why we must but...” She cut her chicken, in part to keep her eyes on her plate and not Edmund’s face. “There are so many places I’d like to go with you. Things I’d like to do. Together. Unafraid of being seen by supervisors or journalists or—”

“I know. I know,” he said, calm and measured. She expected her words to frustrate him, but he spoke with compassion. “And we will, in time.”

_When your wife is dead._

That bitter refrain had circled her head like a vulture ever since she had learned of Emily’s illness. The hope of her hasty death had nested itself deep in Jane’s mind, despite all the shame and criticism Jane heaped upon herself. It was terrible—terrible—to allow that hope to live. But she could not seem to kill it; while Emily breathed, Edmund could not live his life in the open. So she kept this hope a secret and, now, she stuffed her mouth with chicken and parsnips to avoid further conversation until her temper cooled. 

If Edmund noticed the shift in her mood, he made no comment on it. Instead, he ate with her in silence. Slowly, through conscious effort and the delicious flavors of Beatrix’s food, Jane’s spirits rallied and their shared silence turned comfortable.

For some time, only the clinks and ticks of silverware on plates filled her ears until Edmund finally spoke: “Jane. Look.”

She copied him and lifted her face to the sky. “Oh,” she whispered. Ribbons of clouds stretched across the sky, painted pink, yellow, and orange by the setting sun. Birds soared and swooped in random patterns, little silhouettes that went where they pleased. Blue-white glimmers of faraway stars winked in the gloaming. She smiled. “How lovely.”

“Yes,” he whispered, suddenly so close that she felt the tickle of his breath on her neck. When his lips touched her skin, all the unfulfilled desire that had built within her in their two week interim erupted and, soon, she had him under her, his waistcoat and shirt opened, his tie tossed aside, his trousers pushed down to his knees, and his exposed cock hard and heavy in her hand.

She cupped his face and kissed him—moaned into his mouth—when she bore down, slowly down, and filled herself with him.

All the while, she touched him. Hands on bare, warm skin. She set a rhythm that produced deep bursts of pleasure—that made Edmund rock his hips with desperation. That made him take up handfuls of her blanket. That made his breath hitch and made tiny, broken sounds leap from his throat.

And when she brushed his ear with her lips and whispered, “Come for me, Edmund. Come for me now,” she watched him abandon his control and surrender, the last of the sunset reflected in his eyes. He was beautiful this way. Gorgeous. And she knew—when he pulled her down and held onto her with both arms, when he whispered her name, his breath hot and gusty as he pressed his face into the curve of her neck—that he was hers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson helps Edmund move some personals to Jane's, where he receives some good news. And Best breaks some news of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading and, if you feel inclined, commenting. Both mean so much to me, but like so many writers out there, feedback truly makes my day. Here's to a good 2021 to all of us!

  
By the time Reid strode into the Dead Room, Jackson had almost finished his second cup of coffee. “Why, Inspector!” he hailed. “An hour and”—he peeked at his watch—“_forty_ minutes later than usual. My, my. What could have delayed our buttoned-up leader?” 

Reid stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at him with the unamused but patient expression of a father to his unruly child. Reid would have been the very picture of authoritative disapproval if he didn’t have a patch of pink dust on his lapel. Face powder, most like. 

With a grin, Jackson pressed, “What reason, I wonder, would explain this unprecedented tardiness?”

Reid sighed at the ceiling. Good. Yes, yes. 

“A very good reason, I’m certain,” Jackson said. “Or! A very _bad_ reason.” 

Reid closed his eyes. Shook his head. A little closer to the limit of his tolerance.

“Perhaps a, uh”—Jackson elbowed him in the ribs and scampered out of his reach—“a bad reason that made you feel so, _so_ good. A reason that laid her soft, warm body on top of yours and—”

“Are you _quite_ finished, Captain?” 

Jackson smiled, his body almost weightless with the giddy satisfaction that came with turning Reid’s ears such a deep shade of scarlet. If Reid hadn’t cut him off, he might have done the gentlemanly thing and told his friend about his dusty coat. But, as it was, quality entertainment was hard to come by these days, so Jackson decided to indulge in his amusement a while longer. And, without further elaboration, he said, “For now.” 

Reid edged along the counter, dragging a fingertip across it. “Any news this morning?” 

Unable to resist another prod, Jackson replied, “News? Plenty. You too preoccupied to read the papers now?”

“From Best, Jackson! News from Best.” 

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “He’s agreed to look into it.” 

“And not out of the kindness of his heart, I imagine.”

“You know how he is.” Jackson busied himself, transferring used instruments from their tray to the sink. 

Reid followed him. “What did you have to give him? Money?”

“That was my first offer,” he said, untying his blood-smeared apron. 

“But?”

“He wanted something else.” 

“And what that?”

He threw the apron into a basket of laundry at his feet and looked straight at Reid’s face. He knew Reid wouldn’t take this well—not this news—so Jackson steeled himself, planting his feet and raising his chin. “You.” 

“Me?”

“An exclusive interview—”

“No.” Reid turned and made for the door. This time, Jackson followed. 

“An exclusive interview to last no more than a half-hour—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—about a future case of his choosing.” 

Reid spun around like tiger, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. “No, Captain!” 

Jackson raised his hands, leaping backwards. “I already promised it, Reid!” 

“Well, un-promise it!” Reid roared. 

“Reid, you wanted that hospital investigated. You got it. And I know it don’t seem like it, but it’s a small price.” When Reid dropped his shoulders and released a soft, resigned sigh, Jackson seized the chance to move past this Best business and return to congenial conversation. He swiped a clean towel from the counter and tossed it Reid’s way, saying, “Now, here. I can’t take you seriously when you look like that.”

Reid looked from the towel to Jackson. “What am I to do with this?” 

“Wipe off your coat.” 

“My coat?” 

Jackson crossed his arms and reveled in his own delight. He made no effort—not even the tiniest attempt—to hide his smile while Reid craned his neck and located the powder, frowning. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Reid mumbled, scrubbing. 

“Ah, now, don’t be a sourpuss, Reid,” Jackson teased. “It’s a nice problem to have.” 

“Considerably less so when that problem raises all the eyebrows in my station house. I wondered why I'd garnered such attention this morning.” 

Jackson blew a breath through his top row of teeth. “That’s nothin’ but envy. If you’d paid attention to the eyes underneath, you’d-a seen them glaze over with the imagined joy of kissin’ a woman goodbye.” He paused to catch the towel when Reid hurled it at him. “Or a man, come to that.” 

Reid took a seat, still swiping at his lapel with his hand.

“So. How is the lady?” Jackson asked, genuine this time, no mockery. “Pleased you’re not bound for an early grave, it seems.” 

For a moment, Reid looked as if his mind had strayed elsewhere. His mouth twitched with a faint, fond smile when he said, “She cleared space in her library for me.”

“Well, doesn’t that warm the cockles of the heart?” he said, slapping Reid’s shoulder. 

Reid squirmed. “Yes, well, I’d hoped you would feel so warmed as to, uh, help me move some books and clothes and other, uh—”

“What, two weeks cooped up in your own house make you want to leave entirely?” 

“No, not entirely." Again, he brushed at his coat. "Not yet.” 

“Good, ‘cause I’m a doctor, not a movin’ service,” Jackson said, fishing in his pockets for a cigarette. 

“Oh. Of course.” 

“‘s a joke, Reid.” 

“Ah.” 

“When d’you want the help?”

“Tonight,” Reid said, standing and wandering to the foot of Jackson’s occupied slab. “If it suits you.” 

“Suits me fine.” 

“Good.” Reid pulled at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Now. Tell me about our hijacked hansom driver.” 

~~~

That evening, Jackson unloaded Reid’s books onto an armchair in Jane’s library. Reid carried them to the shelves, where Jane sorted and slid them into neat, even rows. While they worked, Jane shared the news of the Council’s most recent measure, one that would require all existing and new hospitals to meet comprehensive patient safety standards and would make all medical facilities subject to surprise inspections.

Fast work. And helpful. More helpful than Best’s work, if Jackson had to guess. Not that Best was nothin’. But while the hospital could avoid Best, refuse to admit him, or even speak to him, the hospital would have to comply with the Council if they hoped to retain their license.

“Even Miss Hart’s new facility will require the Council’s approval,” Jane said.

“‘Magine that’s a whole lot easier to acquire with your involvement,” Jackson said.

She turned away from the shelves and faced him. “It would be easier still with yours.”

Jackson stared at her. Even Reid froze, his arms full of a stack of thick books. Jackson wondered if Reid, too, believed his ears had deceived him. “Mine?” Jackson’s voice swooped skyward. He tapped his sternum. “I’d-a thought even a whiff of my presence and Susan would send a pack of hounds to rip my limbs clean off.” 

“The pungency of your aroma aside, Captain”—Reid’s eyes practically sparkled at Jane’s choice of words—“it was, in fact, your wife’s suggestion.” 

“Susan?” 

“Mm,” Jane hummed. 

“Susan, my wife?” 

“The same.” 

“Susan wants to involve me in her clinic?”

With a grin, Jane continued to shelve Reid’s books. “She specifically wants to invite you to provide your expert opinion on the selection of new personnel, the clinic’s layout and setup. Medical supplies. Medications. Equipment and so forth.” She peered over her shoulder and added, “Edmund tells me you designed Leman Street’s laboratory. Its, um...”

When she looked to Reid, he smiled and supplied: “Dead Room.” 

“Yes, its Dead Room.” 

“I passed along the specifications of the room at Johns Hopkins, that’s all. Besides”—Jackson dropped the last few volumes onto the pile—“dealin’ with live patients, that’s a different matter. I couldn’t use the same—”

“Jackson,” Reid interjected. “If it was as simple as copying the Dead Room, I don’t believe she would have requested your assistance.” He left Jane at the shelves and, standing beside him, lowered his voice to a whisper, “She has opened a door for you, Jackson. Is that not what you wanted?”

Jackson chewed on his lip. Suspicions swirled and rose within him, an uneasy whirlpool in his belly. Crossing his arms, he spoke to Jane over Reid’s shoulder, “You’re _sure_ she wants me?”

Jane joined them at the chair. “Quite sure,” she said. “This week, in fact. I trust Edmund can do without you for one afternoon.” 

When Reid found himself under their gaze, he waved a dismissive hand at Jackson. “Yes, yes.” He turned to Jane, secured an arm around her waist, and asked with a low voice, “Speaking for me now, are we?”

With a squeak and a squirm, Jane escaped Reid’s hold and raced for the shelves. Reid trapped her there. There between his body and his books. Jackson couldn’t decipher their words, but he heard their voices—Reid’s almost foreign, playful and springy. As Jackson watched them—Jane, as she wrapped her arms around Reid’s neck; Reid, as he tilted his head and kissed her—he expected to feel the sting of jealousy. But instead he felt a tiny trickle of hope for himself. Himself and Susan. That the wretchedness of the world would stand down and allow them the happiness and fortune they both deserved. 

~~~

As Jackson and Reid made their way toward Reid’s house to remove another load of Reid’s personals—clothes, mostly—Fred Best stepped into their path. “Gentlemen,” he crooned. 

Despite Reid’s cool composure, he was, it seemed, physically incapable of addressing Best with a courteous—even neutral—tone. “Best,” he said. “I do hope you have a worthwhile reason to interrupt our business.”

Reid continued on his way, and Jackson followed. Best scurried at their heels.

“Oh, I do, Inspector. I come on matters of_ grave_ importance.” 

“Yes, well, on with it, then,” Reid spat over his shoulder. 

“The hospital that roused your suspicions, Inspector,” Best said, almost shouted. And while the street bustled with noise, even at this hour, Jackson wished Best would pipe down. “It appears your hunch was not entirely without cause.” 

“How comforting.” Reid sniped. 

“The hospital, to put it—”

“Jesus, Best, I don’t think the Queen heard you,” Jackson hissed. With a quick pull on Reid’s elbow, he forced him to a stop. He could hardly believe that, of the three of them, only he could find it within himself to act like a God damned adult. With a pointed stare at each of them, Jackson continued, “Now. Again. Quietly. If that ain’t too much trouble.” 

Best pulled at one sleeve, then the other. With a roll of his head, he started over. “The hospital is in crisis. Sixteen patients have fallen ill with meningitis. They have been quarantined in a separate ward, but I have reason to suspect these patients were moved too late and, based on what I have seen, I am…suspicious of the hospital’s attempts to contain the spread.”

“And why’s that?” Jackson asked. 

“Hospital staff seem lax in their execution of written hospital policy. Visitors, Inspector, are allowed to enter any ward they choose. They are not told of the outbreak. No effort is made to prevent contact between visitors and infected patients. Now, before you ask, this was not limited to my own experience. No, Inspector. The ethics of my profession demand—”

“Ethics?” Reid scoffed. “Oh, yes. Yes, Best, you are a model journalist. The city is indebted to you.” 

“_Reid_.” 

Reid scowled at Jackson's rebuke, but erased it from his face when he turned to Best. “You will, uh, excuse me,” he said with a pained, stiff tone. “I am under considerable stress.” 

“Aren’t we all, Inspector?”

Jackson brushed past the exchange, eager to keep Best talking. “So you’re saying you believe the infection has moved outside the hospital?”

“I do, Captain. And worse, we cannot know how far it has spread or the cause of the infection, unless someone comes forward. Staff members, however, declined to identify the first patient to exhibit symptoms and official records are, sadly, incomplete. But the juiciest of my discoveries? Doctor Roberts, the head of the hospital, resigned only two days past for unknown reasons. Another doctor saw him board a hansom with a leather portfolio at the front entrance.” 

“And this other doctor,” Reid said. “He had no other information?”

“None he was prepared to share with me, Inspector,” Best replied. “He became quite anxious when I enquired after Doctor Roberts. I am surprised I extracted any information at all.”

“His name,” Reid demanded. 

“Oh, no, Inspector. I cannot reveal—”

“I need the name, Best.” 

“You cannot have it.” 

Reid stepped to within an inch of Best’s nose. Jackson kept a watchful eye on him. “Best,” Reid growled. “I need to meet with him. I need to _question_ him. And I cannot _do_ that without his name. So. The name, Mr. Best.” 

“Even if I was inclined to reveal the name of my source, Mr. Reid, it would be of no use to you.” 

“How d’you figure?” Jackson challenged. 

For a moment, Best looked as if he would say no more, as if he would stand there with that defiant, smug expression for the rest of time. But, after several seconds, Best peered first at Jackson, then at Reid, and said, “The hospital. It is outside your jurisdiction, Inspector.” 

“No, I, uh...” Reid stammered. “Are you—”

“Oh, what’s this?” Best smiled. 

“Leave it, Best,” Jackson said.

“Does the Inspector not know the boundaries of his own beat?”

“Come on, Reid.” Jackson took Reid by the arm and steered him around the corner. He had a hunch Best was done sharing.

“You’re quite welcome!” Best’s shout soared after them, but Best himself did not follow, and, when they arrived at Reid’s house, Jackson unrolled a map on Reid’s desk. 

As Reid threw half of his wardrobe into a trunk, Jackson followed the thin line around the perimeter of the map. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. 

Reid’s footsteps preceded his voice. “What?” 

“Reid, he’s right.” Jackson pointed to the map and moved aside to let Reid take a closer look. “Outside your jurisdiction by a couple hundred yards or so, which means it’s in—” 

Reid never looked at the map, but his face still fell. He closed his eyes, rubbing at his forehead. “Shine’s. It’s in Shine’s jurisdiction.” 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund can’t shake his suspicions about the outbreak. Jane visits the station house to collect Jackson. And Bennet finds a lead that connects two cases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone reading (but especially to Scribbled and QueenKeeleyHawes, who left me such wonderful, amazing comments!). Only a shorty today. More to come, of course!

Some days, Edmund tired of mystery. He found purpose and self-worth—even redemption—in his work, but, on some days, the endless villainy that paraded into his station house exhausted him. Each new, nefarious plot clawed at his strength. Petty crimes and tangled conspiracies all compounded to erode his resolve. On those days, he stewed in his office.

As the one o’clock hour neared, he tapped his thumb on his desk, slouched over Best’s latest headline: _Meningitis Outbreak Endangers East End_. He scanned the article for a third time, snapping his teeth together like the hammer of a mousetrap.

_When asked whether the outbreak warranted investigation, Inspector Jedediah Shineremarked, “I support the actions taken by hospital staff to contain the outbreak. The Interim Director has, as of this afternoon, barred further visitors and requested that uniformed officers patrol the doors and enforce this new policy.”_ A dull ache developed in Edmund’s jaw. _"And it was my pleasure to grant his request, in the interest of public health and safety.”_

“Public health and safety,” Edmund mumbled, unable to accept as merehappenstance that the hospital fell just inside the boundary of Shine's division.He could not believe it a coincidence that Doctor Roberts had vanished so soon after the disease had spread among his patients. But he had no proof that Shine was involved and, without proof, he had no power.

During the night, the specter of Shine had haunted Edmund’s sleep, had soiled his dreams, until he had slipped out of bed in the faint glimmer of dawn and dressed, slow and soundless so as not to wake Jane. He had kissed Jane’s forehead before he left; affection had welled in his chest when he’d watched her stir in her sleep and curl herself around his pillow.

Outside the bedroom door, a faint whiff of smoke—hints of cherry and vanilla— had stopped him. He had searched his memory, but could not place the scent and he had left the house in a sour mood, one that still lingered about him in his office like a fog on the Thames.

With a crinkle-crunch of its thin paper, he closed _The Star_, folded it, and pounded a path out of his office and down the stairs.

He slowed to a stop as he neared the front desk—and the woman who leaned against it, speaking to Artherton.

“Miss Cobden,” he said, joining her at the desk. “What brings you to our station house?” He enquired with genuine interest and curiosity; he had not expected her.

She turned toward him and flashed a polite smile—but no more than that. “I’ve come to fetch Captain Jackson, who has kindly agreed to help interview candidates for Miss Hart’s new clinic.”

“Ah,” he replied, nodding, annoyed that he had allowed himself to forget.

“I take it Captain Jackson is permitted to leave, Inspector?” Artherton asked.

“Yes, of course, Artherton,” he snapped, his irritation escaping into his tone. “He is not our prisoner here.”

“I only thought, sir, with the investigation of the murdered hansom driver that we might—”

He waved in dismissal. “Jackson has already conducted an autopsy andSergeant Drake is searching the hansom itself as we speak. The man had no family. No friends that we can find. What else would you have me do?”

“Perhaps it’s best if Captain Jackson remains here in case we have need of him, sir.”

“I promise I will return him to you as quickly as possible, Sergeant,” Jane interjected. “He will not be gone longer than a few hours.”

“You’re tellin’ me I have to listen to these docs yammer on about themselves for a few _hours_?” Jackson ambled toward them from the direction of the Dead Room, slapping his hat onto his head.

“Now, Captain,” she chided, reminding Edmund of a patient—but amused—school teacher. “You assured me you understood your—”

“Only kiddin’, Councillor. Turns out I’m actually looking forward to this.”

From what Edmund could tell, so was Jane; she wore a girlish grin as she backed away from the desk.

“My thanks, Inspector Reid,” she said. “And you too, Sergeant Artherton, for parting with him for the afternoon.”

With a gruff hum, Artherton turned his attention to the shift schedule.

Jane turned and headed for the door, Jackson in tow. Edmund planted himself, conscious of his urge to follow her, his desire to touch her. To take her hand and, standing closer than a professional acquaintance would dare, say he would see her tonight. But too many men milled about, so he watched her, forcing himself to remain still. For once, he was envious of Jackson.

As Jackson held the door open for her, she glanced over her shoulder, met Edmund’s eyes, and winked. Against his will, Edmund’s mouth twitched, and he managed to retreat up the stairs before allowing himself to smile for the first time all day.

~~~

Late that afternoon, Bennet opened his office door and peeked inside, holding up a leather portfolio. “Something you’ll want to see, Inspector.”

“This from the hansom?” Edmund stayed seated, waiting for Bennet to set the portfolio on the desk.

“Only thing I found,” Bennet said as he sat.

Edmund scanned the portfolio’s contents, shuffling through loose papers, some half-torn. “Names.”

Names, all written in the same hand. Dates, stamped at irregular intervals. Times noted beside each name. Some names appeared many times, while others...

“My God,” Edmund whispered, staring at the papers. He flipped the portfolio on its front, his heartbeat and his hope both raised.

“Sir?”

“The killers weren’t after the driver. They wanted his passenger.” Edmund pushed the portfolio and papers across the desk. “Look.” He pointed at the top page. “Here, at the top, the words ‘hospital’ and ‘log.’ A date stamp here.” He sifted through the papers. “And here, look, just above the tear.”

Bennet leaned forward for a closer look. “Homer Jackson.”

“Homer Jackson,” Edmund repeated. Then he jabbed at the portfolio with this index finger. “And these initials.”

“S.R.”

“Stanley Roberts. _Doctor_ Stanley Roberts. Who was carrying hospital records. Visitation records.”

“You think this has to do with the outbreak?”

“I believe that whoever killed our hansom driver also took the records missing from this portfolio and—”

“And the doctor himself.”

Edmund gathered the papers into the portfolio, setting it inside his bottom desk drawer. “Both of which almost certainly contain information regarding a visitor whose name would arouse suspicion if—“

The door burst open. Young Constable Grace gulped at the air. “Inspector Reid, message from Captain Jackson. He says, ‘Get to the LLC office.’”

_London County Council._

Edmund glanced at Bennet, whose face registered confusion instead of the alarm that raged in Edmund’s chest.

_Jane._

“Thank you, Constable,” Edmund said, practically catapulting from his chair. “Sergeant, find me Doctor Roberts.” And without even stopping for his hat, he left Bennet and hurried out the door.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break in the outbreak investigation comes from an unexpected source. At great cost, Jane refuses to reveal the whereabouts of this source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: this chapter contains descriptions of graphic violence that may not be suitable for all readers.

The girl that stood before them—so young that Jane hesitated to call her a woman—trembled like the little whiskers of a mouse. She tugged at her sleeves as she described her medical training, which had begun quite early in life, at her father’s surgery. Since then, this young nurse, a Miss Penny Paulson, had achieved advanced experience for someone of her age. Jane jotted all this on a small notepad. Jackson and Susan kept their own notes beside her; they also asked most of the questions. Jane could anticipate most of the questions by now, since they varied little from candidate to candidate, and Miss Paulson—by far the most nervous—answered each of them in a voice so timid that it made Jane want to reassure her and fetch her a cup of tea. 

Instead, she met the poor girl’s eyes and, in silence, tried to communicate her sympathy as Susan posed another question: “And where are you currently employed?”

“Nowhere, ma’am.” Miss Paulson played with the bow that decorated her frock. “I left my previous place of work just last week.” 

Jackson leaned toward Jane and whispered, “This one looks familiar, but I can’t place ‘er.” 

Jane studied her. If she had ever seen Miss Paulson, it must have been in passing because she did not recognize her.

“Where?” Jackson asked the girl.

“Pardon, sir?”

“Where did you leave? Your previous place of work?” 

She curled her lips inward and dropped her head. 

“Speak openly, Miss Paulson,” urged Susan. “You’ll receive no judgement here.” 

Still, the girl remained silent. 

Jane sat forward and made sure to speak in soft voice when she said, “All that you say here will remain in the strictest confidence.” 

She eyed them all, one by one, as if she were weighing their trustworthiness. Finally, she supplied, “Saint Jude’s Asylum and Hospital.” 

“You cared for the mentally ill?” Jane asked, confused as to why the girl would want to hide this information; such rare experience made her an even more appealing candidate.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“That is valuable experience, indeed,” said Susan. “Can you tell us—”

Susan stopped when Jackson leaned close to her. Jane could not decipher his actual words, but his tone was sharp and decisive. During this pause, Jane smiled at Miss Paulson. 

“You are hired, Miss Paulson.” Susan’s abrupt announcement surprised Jane, who stared first at Susan, then at Jackson. Jackson stood up and jerked his head toward Jane, and she followed him to the window while Susan spoke to a smiling young nurse. 

Jackson chewed on his bottom lip, his face turned fully towards the window. “We need to keep this woman safe,” he said, voice low and quiet.

Jane glanced over her shoulder at Miss Paulson, whose body had relaxed into a more natural posture. “Is she in danger?” 

“If she isn’t yet, she will be. That hospital she worked at? That’s where I saw her. That’s where Reid’s—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “That’s where Emily Reid is. Where the—”

And it struck her, at Emily’s name—the potential value of this young nurse beyond her skill. “The outbreak,” she whispered. “You believe she might know something about its origin?” 

Jackson nodded. “Its origin. Transmission. What the administration and staff knew. If she quit that place, I’m guessin’ she found out somethin’ she didn’t like or she wanted to protect herself. Or both.” He finally turned his head enough to meet Jane’s eyes. “We need to question her.” 

The poor girl had just endured one set of pointed questions, and Jane felt reluctant to subject her to another so soon. “Now?” she asked. “She only just recovered from her first bout of nerves.” 

“I know it might seem insensitive, but this is what police work is, Jane. Reid would say the same. We need to question her while we can and, if it turns out she knows somethin’, get a written sworn statement in case...” 

Jane waited for him to continue and, when he did not, she prompted him. “In case what?”

He pushed a noisy exhale through his nose. “In case she runs. Or worse.” 

“Worse? You mean in case she is killed.”

“That would be worse, wouldn’t it?” he snapped. Then he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, all I know is that after the head of Saint Jude’s resigned, he was kidnapped. He might be dead. I’d hate to see the same happen to this girl. And if she’s got some useful information, so much the better, don’t you think?”

Jane saw the sense in Jackson’s reasoning. And moreover, she knew that Edmund would not have missed—or even postponed—the chance to obtain critical information in a case. So she nodded but, as they walked away from the window, she said to Jackson, “Be kind to her. She’s probably already scared.”

~~~

Miss Paulson blinked down at the paper on the desk. She looked at each of them in turn, then back at the paper. She wiggled the pen in her hand, grimacing. Looking back at Susan, who matched her diminutive size, Miss Paulson said, “Is this a condition of employment?”

Jane shook her head, even though the question had not been directed at her. But Susan did not hesitate to say, “No, and you will have our protection regardless of whether you document what you have just now told us. But Miss Paulson, if you are, as you say, passionate about saving lives, know that your sworn statement will do just that.”

“Not to mention,” Jackson added, “earn you police protection.” 

She would need it. Jane’s stomach still churned with the sour sickness of knowledge. She had listened, horrified, as Miss Paulson had responded to Jackson’s questions. Jackson had heeded Jane’s advice, and with his gentle encouragement, Miss Paulson had revealed one terrible detail after another. Jane held Edmund in her mind, worried about how Miss Paulson’s news would affect him, whether it would motivate or break him. He already hated Inspector Shine with intense, palpable rage—Jane had heard it in his voice, had seen it bubble into his expression. She feared now that he would abandon the law and seek to end Shine with his own bare hands. But she admitted—in silence to herself—she could hardly blame him if he tried.

“They wouldn’t arrest me?” Miss Paulson asked, a little quiver in her voice. “Even though I knew what was happening and didn’t stop it? Didn’t report it?” 

At this, Jane set her hand on the girl’s shoulder and said, “It is not a crime to be frightened.” 

“Please, Miss Paulson,” Susan added, touching her fingertips to the paper. “Write your statement and you will be protected.” 

When she finally bent over the desk and wrote out her statement, the three of them exchanged relieved glances. Even Miss Paulson seemed to stand easier, as if unburdened, once she placed the pen beside her complete and sworn affidavit. Jackson rolled it up and passed it to Jane, who slipped it into the pocket of her skirt.

As Susan took Miss Paulson aside and explained their next steps, Jackson turned to Jane. “Do you mind tellin’ all this to Reid? And give him the statement.” 

She nodded. 

“I’d do it, but I want to make sure they get settled nice and safe at Tenter Street.” 

“Of course.”

“Good,” Jackson said. “Once they’re all settled, I’ll get a message to Leman Street and tell Reid to go to your office. Might take a bit, but no more than an hour or two.” 

She had no qualms with the plan. While she still harbored considerable worry about Edmund’s reaction, she wanted to be there when he heard the news. She wanted to be there to calm him, comfort him, if she could. 

The sunniness of the morning had yielded to a gloomy afternoon, and as Jane stepped out of the clinic, she peered at the dark storm clouds overhead. The air smelled of oncoming rain. Another scent—a faint, smoky vanilla and cherry—cut through the rancid smells of the street and found her nose. She looked about and found the source: a tall, broad man with a youthful face who puffed on a curved, polished pipe. He grinned around his pipe, nodding to her. She returned the nod before a clap of thunder caused her to end the pleasant exchange and hurry to catch a hansom.

She arrived at her office before the rain started. She informed her staff assistant to expect a police officer, an Inspector, and to admit him to her office. Like those of other Council members, her office contained a cabinet that locked—not quite a safe, but difficult to move or destroy. A secure place for confidential materials. Jane unlocked this cabinet and placed Miss Paulson’s statement inside. Once she had locked—and double-checked—the cabinet, she took a seat at her desk. She stowed the key to the cabinet in her bottom desk drawer, under a stack of reports and proposed legislation, and slouched over her desk. 

She propped her chin in the palm of her hand, too distracted and troubled to tackle any of her work. Her mind wandered to Shine, to all that he had orchestrated. As a public servant, Shine’s disregard for his duty—for decency altogether—made her mouth twist with disgust. She knew that Shine would not be the first—nor the last—police officer who thought himself above the law or abused his power, somehow exempt from the measures he was expected to enforce. She tried to push further worries from her mind—that Shine’s superiors would fail to punish him, that Shine would somehow keep his post and continue to terrorize those he vowed to protect. 

A knock on the door drew her out of her thoughts. A pleasant surprise. Edmund had responded to Jackson’s message with more speed than expected. But she raised her head and found—not Edmund, but another man, one she did not know. She studied him as he shut the door. Hair pushed back and away from his sloped forehead. Pointed nose. Mustache. He moved slowly, but out of confidence not caution—he stood tall, back straight and shoulders squared, chin raised. She stood up, but stayed behind her desk as he approached her. He possessed an quality she could not describe, but one that made her feel relieved to have a desk between them.

“Councillor Cobden,” he said, his voice as gravelly as a handful of wet sand. 

She summoned the will to quiet the nervous whispers in her head and held out her hand. “Good afternoon, sir. I do not believe I have had the pleasure.” 

The man smirked, advancing around the side of her desk. Jane tensed, but tried not to show it. 

“Indeed, you have not,” the man said. He took her hand, but didn’t shake it so much as hold it, then bent his head. “Inspector Jedediah Shine.” 

She watched him kiss the back of her hand, but hardly felt it; she had become numb to all sensation but the prickly dread that coiled around her internal organs like a python. She wanted to escape him. Draw her hand away, put a great deal of physical distance between them and demand that he leave. She must have allowed all this to show on her face—or Shine simply knew when he inspired discomfort or fear—because he uttered a low hum laced with satisfaction. 

“I see you know me by reputation,” he said. With a lurch, he pulled her close. She had to press her free hand to his chest to avoid colliding with him. “Word of me has reached you, no doubt, through our mutual acquaintance. Inspector Reid.”

Jane’s tone matched her fury. “Release me, Inspector Shine.” 

He tightened his grip on her wrist. “And I only just heard that you have met another acquaintance of mine.”

She set her jaw and stared at him. Tempted to try to jerk out of his grasp, she curled her hand into a fist and flexed her arm, but with a fast calculation, she opted to stay still—but readied herself to dash out of his reach as soon as he relaxed his hold. Shine leaned down, his breath in her ear and his odor in her nose. A sour smell. Days-old sweat and whiskey. 

“A Miss Penny Paulson,” he said. “A timid young lady. You remember her, don’t you?” 

“Inspector, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I—”

It took only a couple seconds for Shine to whip her around, bend her over, and slam her down to her desk. Shock failed to register. She sensed no pain. Papers fluttered nearby. She blinked, dizzy and disoriented, half-aware of the powerful force of his elbow on her spine. 

“Now, now, Miss Cobden, you know I am a police officer. And police officers, we can smell lies.” As if to demonstrate, he leaned over her and inhaled, slow and noisy. “So the truth now, Councillor. Miss Paulson. You will tell me where she is.” 

Determined to sound brave, to retain some measure of control, she scoffed. “Why? So you might add another murder to your ledger?”

Another low hum. Grotesque. His mustache and lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Bold. And feisty. And”—Jane cringed as he slapped her bottom—”a superb example of enticing elegance, besides. I can see, Miss Cobden, why he likes you.” And then her whole body froze, paralyzed by the pressure of Shine’s erection against her behind. 

At that touch, the flimsy illusion of control vanished. She drowned in panic. In a murky sea of sounds and sensations. Dull pain in her forearm. Then a solid crash on the floor. Glass on wood. Her paperweight? A rustle of fabric. Clothes. A tickle on the back of her thighs. Her skirt. Now bunched on top of her back. _No. No. _

Shine’s voice exploded in her ear. “Where is Miss Paulson?” 

_No, no. _

“Tell me, Councillor.” 

_No._

She could not speak. Neither her voice nor her muscles responded to the frantic demands of her brain. _Move. Kick. Stomp. Scream._ She squeezed her eyes shut. Shook her head. _No. Please, God, no. _

Shine’s hand. Rough. Between her knees. _No, no, no._ A shove. Thighs parted. Cool air on her most intimate skin. A chuckle. A hard _knock-knock-knock_ at the door. 

Her voice hurtled out of mouth. “Help! Help! Help!” 

Shine slapped his hand over her mouth and pressed hard. 

“Jane?” Edmund. The doorknob jiggled, but the door stayed shut. “Jane!”

She tried to push a scream past Shine’s hand, but he pressed so hard she could not move her jaw, could not part her lips. Could not bite. Air came through her nose. She almost choked on her own muffled scream. Almost missed the sounds at the door, a thud, splintering, a loud crack. 

Then a sensory assault. A wooden explosion, as if a bomb went off at the door. Her body wrenched upward. Her name—Edmund’s voice. His eyes, full of shock and cold rage. Shine’s grip, like a mechanical clamp. A blurry world turned sideways as Shine threw her aside. Faint pain when she struck the floor, her breath knocked from her lungs. She gasped to regain it. 

Above her, Shine and Edmund collided. 

She looked away—did not wish to see—and slid across the floor amid their violent animal sounds until she reached an overstuffed, sturdy armchair. She propped herself up behind the chair, all her muscles tense and knotted. Her skin cold. 

The room shook. She had not prayed since she was small, but she prayed now. Bowed head, closed eyes, and all. She prayed as furniture skidded across the floor. Prayed over the smack of skin and bones, over the crack of battered ribs. She prayed as their shoes stomped and scuffled as if they were on the feet of bulls. She prayed for Edmund. She prayed for herself. 

Then Edmund slid into her field of vision, blood on his collar and a welt on his cheek. “Jane,” he said. His hard, fast breaths shifted her hair, the loose strands that had escaped their pins. He started to reach for her, then stopped. “May I?” 

She stared at him. For a moment, her throat closed, and she could not breathe. _May I?_ Those tiny words soothed her like hot bath water. She drew comfort from them, absorbed them and, while they still echoed in her mind, she threw herself at him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed him. Pawed at his head, his shoulders, his back. Inhaled the scent of his skin—warm Eastern spices and coffee—and allowed him to buoy her. To hold her. 

“Jane. My dear, sweet Jane.” The tremor in his voice touched her, and she pressed her body as close as she could, there on the floor. “Are you—“ She heard him swallow. “Are you hurt?” 

She shook her head. “No.” In the pause that followed, it did not escape her that she heard no sounds, but for those made by the two of them. When she pulled away from Edmund and scanned the room, she saw no one else. 

“He’s gone,” Edmund said, anticipating the question that had formed in her mind. “He ran.” 

“Edmund, do you not wish to go after him? Arrest him?” Inside her, the need to see Shine apprehended and punished burned like a bonfire. And if such a fierce desire lived within _her_, she imagined Edmund’s to be extreme. She half-wondered at the fact that he still knelt here with her and had not rushed after Shine of his own accord. 

A shadow of determination passed over his face. “Oh, yes,” he said. “And I will. But you, uh…I did not, uh—I did not want to—not when you, uh...” He looked down between them and took her hand. Brushing her knuckles with his thumb, he said, “Did he, uh—did he—”

She interrupted him before he could speak the words. “No. Almost,” she admitted. Her face flooded with heat—embarrassment and shame that society had trained all women to feel in the event of—even unwanted—

Jane shook her head to clear her mind and, with the motion, a sharp pain throbbed at the side of her skull. Shine had pressed her head down to the desk. Of course. It had not hurt then—her brain had worked hard to shield her from the pain, she knew—but it pounded now. Setting her jaw, she forced herself to focus on Edmund’s face and on the news she had for him. 

Just as she drew breath to speak, Edmund stood up and held his hand out to her. “Here,” he said. “Let us move to the sofa.” 

She was acutely aware of how he watched her as she found her feet and walked the few steps to the sofa. His concern and care made her feel protected but, while she was—perhaps more than ever—thankful for his instinctive bravery and his readiness to act as a bulwark for others, she did not want to be treated like a fragile blossom. And, more than that, she wanted to shift Edmund’s attention back to Shine—and his speedy arrest. 

So she left Edmund on the sofa and fetched the key from her bottom desk drawer. Walking to her cabinet, she said, “Edmund, I believe that Shine came here because he knows that you are on his trail.” 

“Jane, you must know I did not mean for you to be put in harm’s way when—”

“No. No,” she said, pointing at him. “That is not why I mention this.” She unlocked the cabinet and took out the affidavit. She returned to the sofa, leaving the cabinet open, but did not sit. “I mention this so that you do not become distracted by the contents of what I hold, but act with the urgency necessary to bring about swift and certain justice.” 

Edmund tilted his head, staring at her. She took his silence as an invitation to continue. 

“This is a sworn statement given by a nurse who interviewed with us today and who was, until very recently, employed at Saint Jude’s.” 

Recognition bloomed in his eyes, but he stayed quiet. 

“In it, she relays her personal knowledge of the outbreak at the hospital and who is responsible for it.” 

“Shine.” 

“And Doctor Roberts.” She extended the affidavit toward him. “We have him. We have them both. Read it.” 

As Edmund took the paper, she sat down, peering about her office. She would return her furniture to its proper place later. Make a list of those pieces that would need to be replaced. The staff assistant would place the order for new pieces and dispose of the old. He would never ask for an explanation and would not speculate. She had never quite anticipated this particular situation, but she had hired the young man for his commitment to public service, his fastidiousness, and discretion. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. 

After a time, Edmund turned toward her. “This nurse, Miss Paulson. She is protected?”

“She is with Jackson and Susan at Tenter Street,” she said. 

He nodded, dropping his attention back to the statement. He remained silent for a long while. Jane detected few movements. The back and forth of his eyes as he read. The repeated clench of his jaw. The flare of his nostrils when he pulled in a forceful breath.

When he finally raised his head and looked at her, he spoke with naked fury in his voice. “I will see him hanged. I will see to it, even if I have to put the rope around his vile neck and push him from the scaffold myself.” 

It was a promise of violence and death. But Jane heard the love that fueled it and nodded her approval with the smallest of smiles. 


End file.
